One Thousand Paper Cranes
by Dhampir72
Summary: John Watson once heard that if you make one thousand paper cranes, you get one wish. AU Post-Reichenbach as of 1/15/12. John/Sherlock. Soft spoilers for series two.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: One Thousand Paper Cranes

**Summary**: John Watson once heard that if you make one thousand paper cranes, you get one wish. Post Reichenbach. John/Sherlock.

**Rating**: +13

**Genre**: Angst/Romance

**A/N**: Don't judge me for this.

**pqpq**

_My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead. _

Or at least, that is what I was told to believe after what had happened. That was also what I wrote on my blog so that people would stop filling my inbox with questions and speculations and letters of empty apology. Writing it seemed like the right thing to do, because people told me he was dead and I knew I had to make the social decision to act like I believed them. I could not go around saying that Sherlock Holmes was not dead, because it was bad enough talking about him in the present tense sometimes; people worried about my sanity and my ability to cope. So I had to write the words _My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead _just so that I could mourn in my own way. Sherlock Holmes was not dead, I knew, but he was absent, and I mourned more for that instead. Because of that, people thought I had accepted it and was dealing with it like I should.

However, they did not understand that just by saying the words did not make it the truth. There was no body. There was no evidence that proved without a doubt that Sherlock Holmes had died. There was only what people said and speculated and then wrote down in the papers to solidify it in people's minds. But Sherlock would have laughed about all the idiocy and jumping to conclusions because everyone was just so _stupid_ and _how on earth_ did we live with such _boring _minds? Just thinking about it, I laughed too, sometimes, because I could hear his voice and it was like those times I missed more than I could ever say. Once or twice, Ms. Hudson had caught me in the middle of these hysterical fits of laughter that made me cry and almost immediately had dispatched a familiar face to come to my aid. Her concern was endearing, but I hated it all the same. Everyone tiptoed around me for the first few weeks like a bomb about ready to explode.

But I did not explode, because there was nothing to explode about. Call it denial, but I knew for a fact that Sherlock Holmes was not dead. It was just about waiting for him to return. He always did come back for me in the end, so I had to hold out on my end by being the person to which he could always return. That was the nature of our relationship and that was why I did not vacate 221b Baker Street. Mycroft covered Sherlock's part of the rent as usual and perhaps a bit of mine as well so that I could remain there. I wasn't sure why he would do such a thing, because Mycroft wasn't one for sentimentality. But the last time I had seen him, there was a sadness that had not been there before. It was not anything terribly noticeable: just a heaviness to his eyes, a darkness to his irises, and a frown deeper than usual. Close or not, they were brothers, and because of that I never asked if Mycroft really believed Sherlock dead. It would be too much of a wound to pick at if he truly believed that to be fact.

So, I existed while Sherlock was away. For the first month I believed him to come home at any time, racing up the stairs like a loon with tales of adventure and rapier wit on his lips. The second month, I had to throw away his experiments that had been abandoned, ready to face the wrath when Sherlock came home. But he did not come home and by the third month I had stopped racing to the door every time I heard a key in the lock downstairs. By the fourth month, I began straightening the things that Sherlock would never let me clean before. He would be so angry, and I did this with a smile on my lips. By the fifth month, the flat was clean and orderly, and whenever I looked at it, I was smug that Sherlock would have all sorts of words at me for it. By the six month, I was no longer looking forward to his anger, but rather angry that there was no anger on his part towards my actions. In my rage, I went into Sherlock's room and vindictively messed up his sock index just to get it out of my system.

Seven months passed and soon I found myself standing in one room of the flat for hours, wondering when Sherlock's presence had disappeared. The kitchen and the living room were orderly and neat and over-characteristically _mine_. The fridge was too clean when devoid of body parts. The walls were not riddled with bullet holes or newspaper clippings tacked up on every available surface. It did not smell continuously of noxious fumes and decay. No, his presence was gone completely and instead of feeling relief at some of these developments, there was only a sense of loss.

It was the beginning of the eighth month that I felt some despair. Why was Sherlock not back yet? Certainly he could have come home by now? The nightmares that had plagued me since his disappearance came strongly and more violently than before, keeping me up all hours of the night in fear and anguish. Some nights, I could not bear it, and would sneak down to Sherlock's room where the last few vestiges of him existed. I knelt next to his bed and rested my head against the side of the mattress, not wanting to lie in his sheets and erase his scent entirely. This was all I had left of Sherlock.

By the ninth month, I felt like a ghost. It was colder than ever out. Christmas was spent alone with the company of drink, because I couldn't bear anyone coming into the flat to see what I had done to it. I could not even put it back into its usual disarray, because I couldn't remember how Sherlock had scattered his things. If I did it, it would be merely superficial and the lack of its authenticity would hurt me more than it could ever help.

The tenth month and it was already a new year. It was with a heavy heart that I realized I could not continue to wait in the flat any longer. If Sherlock was alive, maybe he did not want to come home. Maybe he had run off...run off to find Irene Adler, whom I knew for a fact could not be dead, just like I knew Sherlock not to be dead. Maybe they were together somewhere, having an array of adventures without me. I smiled, but it hurt deep in my chest. Not really jealousy, but loneliness. (Well, perhaps a bit of jealousy, then.) I missed his text messages always encouraging me to come along on one scheme or another with the simple phrase _it could be dangerous _because he knew that those words were all I needed to hear.

But now, there were no messages on my phone. Every month on the anniversary of his "death" I would text his old number, just to see if I would get a response. Always: _Please tell me you're alive. JW._

Always: _Number no longer in service_

At the beginning of the eleventh month, I went back to work for something to occupy my time and thoughts. It was a clinic close by, much like the first I had been employed at so long ago. I treated sore throats and arthritis and prescribed drugs for menstrual cramps and gout and eventually the days blurred into strings of moments without meaning. And the days all ended at the flat, where I struggled to keep Sherlock alive in my mind.

One year had passed and I was still alone. Lestrade called me and we met up to have a pint and toast to "Sherlock's memory".

"How are things?" Lestrade asked, like he always did when we met up. Our lives had diverged completely without Sherlock to bring us together, so I had stayed out of his social circle for the past year. His brown eyes were warm and worried, saying without words everything that Ms. Hudson said regularly: _you're too thin, you don't smile enough, why don't you go out with a nice girl and have some fun?_

"As well as they can be. And yourself?" I asked, because I didn't want to consider my doubts.

"As well as they can be. The wife and I are patching things up, I think, so it might be a good year this time," Lestrade said, and I could only think of what Sherlock would say about Lestrade's attempts at repairing his marriage. Something along the lines of _She's doing the PE teacher _again. I smiled to myself at the joke, but it was strained. The thought of Sherlock was no longer an inspiration to me, but something becoming more and more painful.

A year and one month later, I was back to clinic duties and trying to make friends again. Learning to socialize, be friendly and easy-going, but it all felt forced and unnatural. I tried to go on a few dates, but I was told that I was "emotionally absent" which was probably the best description of me by this point. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I had no idea who was staring back at me. I had lost weight and my eyes were too sad to look at. After a while, I stopped looking in the mirror all together, afraid of what I would find.

A year and two months later, my leg started to hurt more than it didn't and the tremor in my hand returned so that I could barely hold a mug of tea without spilling. Fear gripped me for the first time since Sherlock's disappearance: I was alone again and faced with this dismal life of merely existing without cause and without passion. Sherlock had given me a purpose and the adventure-the challenge-I needed. Without him...I was back to where I was over two years ago: crippled and angry and alone.

A year and three months later, I was in the clinic working a double shift while one of the nurses was on maternity leave. A mother and her daughter came into the clinic for the first time. I handled the transfer of their paperwork from another clinic in Saxony so that I could begin filling the prescriptions required to treat the girl's cystic fibrosis. I kept Ms. James and her daughter, Georgia, in my office as I did this, asking general questions as I began reviewing her file. On the corner of the desk, I noticed Georgia folding paper into different shapes while I wrote out her thirty day prescriptions for her usual antibiotics.

"What is it you're making, there?" I asked, because I had never seen an eight year-old attack something with such concentration before.

"A crane," Georgia replied simply, as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

"A crane?" I inquired, puzzled by the response. Georgia finished her folding and then pulled on the two triangles on the opposite sides. The paper expanded into the shape of a bird. "Wow," I said upon seeing it, and even managed to smile authentically. "That's quite impressive."

"She's been making them non-stop," Ms. James said, putting her hand on top of her daughter's head, stroking through the strands of her auburn hair with all the love and sadness in the world. I felt like I should not be witness to such a private thing.

"I read a book," Georgia said, holding out the crane to show it to me as she explained. "It was about a girl who was really sick in Japan after WWII. She heard a story about these cranes...if you make a thousand paper cranes then you get one wish. So she started making cranes because she wanted to get better." Ms. James looked like she wanted to cry. Georgia folded the wings back up on the crane and put it in her pocket. "She died though. She only made six hundred. That's why I'm going to make one thousand and get better." She looked at her mom and smiled so widely that I only felt pain. There was no cure for her illness, just practices to manage it, but sometimes even those practices were too taxing on the body...

"You'll see, mum. I'll get better."

It was with a heavy heart that I ripped off the prescription from my pad and handed it to Ms. James. "With enough cranes, positivity, and modern medicine, she might have the right idea," I said, and manged to smile. So did Ms. James.

"I hope so," she said and I hoped so too.

We talked for a little while longer before I showed them to the door with the promise to see them again in one month. As they were leaving, I asked Georgia: "What number crane are you on now?"

"Number three hundred and forty-eight," she said, but it was with confidence as she added: "I've got a lot more to finish."

"That you do," I said, and watched as they left out the main door. For some reason I was reminded of the way Sherlock had left the flat for the last time: that same determined stride towards an unknowable fate.

"That you do..."

**pqpq**

It was a year and four months later that I learned how to make an origami crane.

The notion had been silly at first, but after seeing how much joy and purpose it gave Georgia, I couldn't help myself. I made my first crane out of green paper. The wings and tail came out crooked, but I thought it was good for my first attempt. I put it on the mantle above the fireplace and thought that it looked a little lonely, so I made a second one out of blue paper to join it. The blue one came out much better: straight and tall and proud. I put it next to the lopsided green one, which leaned against the another. It was then that I thought about how much I missed Sherlock. I had been leaning on him all along and hadn't realized it until now.

That month, I made fifty-nine cranes. They took up the mantle and ranged from as small as a shot glass to as large as my mobile. I did not make them all out of origami paper from the craft store, but out of whatever had been lying around: newspaper, prescription pad paper, receipts, and post-it notes. Every single one of them had been a sort of therapy for me. Whenever I thought of Sherlock, I tried to make one. I thought about something I missed about him and put it into the folds of that paper bird so that it wouldn't hurt so much to remember, or to forget.

I continued to make cranes for the next year. My leg still hurt most days, but the shaking in my hand was less than it had been. I managed to go out and meet more people. I dated a girl named Mara for two months, but it didn't work out. It had nothing to do with her, but more to do with me and all my preoccupied thoughts. I had always been preoccupied with Sherlock before when dating, and now was no different. Except for now, Sherlock was not there, and I woke up in the middle of the night sometimes with my heart hammering in my ribs when I realized with nothing but dread that I could not remember what color his eyes were.

By the end of that year, I had five hundred and six cranes. There were so many that I could no longer display them on the mantle above the hearth and began putting them wherever I could: into the desk and bureau drawers, folded into shoe boxes, shoved into cabinets. When those places were exhausted, I started putting them in Sherlock's room, where I knew he would be disturbed by all the clutter in his semi-organized space. Already the dust had settled over his things, but his scent still clung to the sheets and the things in the closet, so after I had dispersed little birds all over his room, I knelt down next to the bed and rested my forehead against the side of his bed. It smelled like Sherlock under the tears I had shed before: all those nights I could not remember his face, or the sound of his voice, or woke up thinking that he would be there and he was not.

"You're not coming back, are you?" I asked the empty room. Liquid heat burned under my lids, but I would not cry. I would not cry yet. I still had to cling to the hope that Sherlock was alive and coming home. I had to believe that the stupid birds I kept making would somehow bring him back to me. "Please...Sherlock..." and I hated the way I begged and heard my voice crack. Why was I so lost without him? Why was I so _empty_?

My own voice answered before I realized.

"I...love you..."

**pqpq**

At the beginning of the third year without Sherlock, I felt the weight of my confession.

I loved Sherlock Holmes.

Had I loved Sherlock all along or had I learned to love him in his absence? I did not know the difference between the two, but I was pretty sure I knew that a good friend would have moved on by now. I was a good friend-Sherlock's only friend-and so I should have, but here I was clinging to him desperately and staying up all hours of the night to make paper cranes for this man who probably did not know what loved entailed in the slightest. I laughed until I cried and cried until I laughed because I did not know what else to do with myself except go to work and fight with the machine at the co-op every time I wanted milk, only to come home and not sleep at night to fold paper cranes until the sun came up.

Three years and one month later, I was coming up with reasons to not love Sherlock Holmes. I even wrote them down so that I could keep track of all the things that I had hated about Sherlock: his mess, his arrogance, his secrecy. But then I realized that all the things I hated so much about him were the things that I could not _not_ love about him. The list turned into all of the things I loved about Sherlock and it killed me so much, but I could not _stop_.

It was my own kind of therapy to keep the tremors away and the dreams at bay. I couldn't keep going to Sherlock's room because it was desperate and wrong for me to do so. Plus, it was losing its smell and Sherlock's presence with it. What would I do when it was gone? What would I do when there was nothing left of Sherlock at all?

Three years and two months later I had eight hundred and seventy-three cranes. I had beat Georgia by two hundred and sixty-one, but that was just because the poor girl was dying of illness instead of what was killing me. Her optimism in the face of a dark future made me try to hold on a little longer. Once I made my wish and my wish did not come true, then I could let go.

I could finally let go.

Three years and six months later, I went out for coffee with a colleague after work. She was nice and trying to keep me interested, but I was politely civil and that must have been an effective hint. Eventually, she left me alone and I was left sitting outside in the weak sunshine to finish my drink alone. When I was finished, I folded the check into a paper crane.

It was crane number one thousand.

The last paper crane I would ever make sat there on the table before me, between my palms, with all its ugly blue lines and indecipherable scribbles. My heart constricted because this was it: time for my wish that would not come true and then launch me into a world without Sherlock Holmes. My hand shook, but I closed my eyes and breathed to calm myself.

_Even if it's just for a moment, I want to see Sherlock again_.

That was all I wanted: I wanted a moment to see his face and hear his voice and just to know that he was alive. That would be enough for me, even if he would not stay or visit ever again. Just to know that Sherlock was alive would be enough for me to live again.

I don't know what I expected to happen when I opened my eyes: maybe that Sherlock would appear in the chair across from me like three years hadn't passed and he was already on a case with which he needed my help. The thought of him being within my physical reach was overwhelming, but I would have welcomed it just to have him _here _again.

With me again.

But Sherlock did not come and I even waited several hours before moving. I pocketed the crane and straightened my back and told myself: _John Watson, you're fine. You're free, now. You're free_.

Hands in my pockets, I left the cafe and walked down the street in the direction of Baker Street. At the corner, I waited for traffic to pass so that I could cross. And it was in that moment that a cab made a turn through the caution light and pulled in front of me. I would not have noticed it otherwise: just another black cab in a sea of identical taxis. But this one I noticed because it cut me off and made me step back onto the sidewalk and look, really look, at the cab.

In the back seat, Sherlock Holmes' face stared back at me.

All the air left my lungs and I was frozen as if I had been plunged into the Thames in the dead of winter. Sherlock's steel-gray eyes were staring back at me beneath the dark sweep of his curls. The collar of his jacket was pulled up, but not so much that I could not see those characteristic cheekbones, the defined jaw and chin, and those lips that had entertained my own private, desperately shameful thoughts. I couldn't breathe or think or move, just stand there staring with my eyes drinking in all of this detail in the few seconds that the cab passed by. And then, it was gone. Sherlock was gone: into the mess of traffic on the street crowded with black cabs moving in all directions. I jumped over the safety railing on the corner and into the street without regards to safety or other vehicles or bicyclists. I did not even notice that for the first time in over two years, my leg did not hurt as I ran as fast as I could in the direction that cab had taken. I ran until my lungs were on fire and my chest felt as if it were about to crack open under the strain. In all that time, I did not catch a glimpse of Sherlock anywhere.

It was in that moment that I realized I had gotten my wish: I had gotten my one moment to see him and know that he was alive. But that was all I was allowed. Those twenty seconds had been the culmination of over two years of folding cranes and over three years of waiting. That was all I was allotted and I felt cheated and wronged and so angry at my helplessness that I wanted to scream to whatever God was listening that it was not _fair_.

But I did not.

I hung my head and got out of the road, put my hands into my pockets, and continued walking home. There were tears falling from my eyes, down my cheeks unbidden, and I wanted to hide away somewhere where no one could see me and my despair. But I was out in the open walking home with my hands clenched into fists in my pocket, the left smothering the thousandth crane with all my might.

By the time I reached Baker Street, I did not want to go home: into that flat that reminded me too much of Sherlock and our life together and all those feelings that made no sense at all and all that _hope _sitting on the mantle above the hearth. I went to the corner pub instead and drank until I had a headache and wanted to throw up for three days and forget everything that had ever happened. After all, I had promised myself that I would move on whether or not I got my wish.

And now it was time to say goodbye.

Tomorrow, I would pack up all my things from Baker Street and leave for good. Sherlock would keep me here no longer: in this state of mine still bewitched by him even in three years of absence. It killed me heart and soul to do it, but I had to let go, or be torn apart by longing and memory and _love _for a man who had abandoned me.

"To Sherlock Holmes," I said to myself as I held up the last bit of my pint. I could see my sad reflection in the golden depths and closed my eyes. This person was a thing of the past, much like the man I was toasting to in the corner of a dark pub by my lonesome. "The best man I ever met."

_And the only man I ever loved. _

**pqpq**

**A/N: **Because we all know that John totally did not move on with his life after Reichenbach, like I will not move on with my life after the Fall. So I guess the question is...should there be a second part to ease our pain? Or just leave this sad excuse for a fic alone like this, so that it can just rub salt into the already open wounds?

Dhampir72

BTW: For those of you who don't know from where this story originates, I highly recommend researching Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes. I read her story as a kid and cried buckets, then I saw her memorial in Hiroshima and cried more buckets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Because people requested more: here you have it. It looks like this might be a short multi-chapter after all.

**pqpq**

The key barely made it into the lock at 221b, not only because the light needed changed above the door but because I, John Watson, was too drunk to even remember my shoe size, let alone how to properly fit the key into the correct slot. I leaned heavily against the door as I attempted to allow myself into the apartments, hoping that some passerby did not think me a poor go at robbery. It was just when the lock gave way and the door swung open that I thought about the note I had once seen under the knocker that read: _Robbery in progress, please interrupt _and I wanted to laugh, but could only choke back a pitiful sort of sob at the recollection that those were the times when I could always come home to Sherlock. And now that Sherlock was not there, and had not been there for over three years, and would not ever be there for the rest of my life, I could barely keep my knees from giving way.

From my shaky, half-upright position, I closed the door softly so not to wake Ms. Hudson. Then I gripped the baluster railing and dragged myself up the seventeen and a half stairs to my flat. Singular _my_ now that I had said my goodbyes and things were no longer _ours_ because there was no one else with which I could share the things inside. Those were the things that comprised my life with Sherlock and that life was over. So the things from that life simply became _mine_ instead of _ours_ and just thinking about it took so much out of me that I hadn't realized I was standing in the kitchen like a ghost, staring at the kettle, until at least ten minutes had passed. I contemplated it and really, it was just an ordinary kettle, but it inspired the question loaded with doubt and three years of anguished waiting: to whom did it belong? Was it mine or Sherlock's? Because it had always been _our_ kettle and had continued to be _our_ kettle until now, in that moment, when I had to start making the executive decision to begin dividing things into neat little boxes with clear tags that read _**mine**_ and _**his **_in bold letters, even though to do so crushed my heart.

I wanted to break the damned kettle to solve the entire problem.

But I didn't because more cutlery and flatware would follow and then everything else that I did not want to part from the collective _ours _category. Instead, I kept my fists at my sides until I could stop shaking and strangle the sound in my throat that was too soft and too broken to acknowledge with a name. Then I straightened my back and blinked my aching eyes, trying to ward off the impending headache I felt coming on from too much angst and alcohol. Autopilot commenced: fill the kettle with water, put on the stove, let boil. Pull down one cup, and only one, and then the tea and strainer. With one hand pressed against the counter for balance, I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to ten in an attempt to ease off some of the pressure in my head, only made worse by the want to cry until there was nothing but hollowness in my entire body.

Because only when I was entirely empty of everything would I be able to move on completely.

However, I pushed back that desire-just a few minutes, hours more-and slid my arms out of my coat, turning towards the living room go hang it on the rack by the door. What I saw there standing in the kitchen doorway stopped me in my tracks immediately, my breath hitching, freezing somewhere in my chest where it solidified like ice and stone and _memory_.

"John."

The sound of that voice saying my name nearly made me come undone right there, but some stronger part of me held all the bits and pieces of myself together so that I could look, really look, at what stood before me.

_Who _stood before me.

"Sherlock..." I whispered the name so softly that I barely heard it over the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears. It was Sherlock just as I remembered him: with all his extraordinary height and dark hair and the eyes that could see right through me, to my very core and deeper still. And then there were those damned cheekbones of his and the lips I wanted to know more about... combined with the sight of the mere tips of those alabaster fingers touching the edge of the kitchen island with the same amount of delicacy Sherlock put into his violin bow. There were all those things and so many more tiny details that I took in during that moment, but could barely comprehend. I was overwhelmed and drunk and had been in near-hysterics for the past few hours and had just been about ready to give up all hope of ever getting over this man. But suddenly there he was, standing in my kitchen because _Sherlock_ _was alive_.

"You're-"

"Alive? Of course," Sherlock replied, scoffing softly in the manner he reserved for me and no one else. It was how he expressed his disapproval at my low level of intelligence with only a half-sort of meanness in it to make me not feel too badly in the face of his brilliance. I was not sure if I should have been angry or overjoyed, so I settled somewhere between shocked and confused instead. "Don't give me that look, John. You knew I wasn't really dead."

I always believed it and continued to believe Sherlock not to be dead, but I had my doubts about everything I had seen today: the Sherlock in the back of the cab, the Sherlock standing in my living room with his voice so achingly familiar that it _hurt_. Good things didn't happen like that and one-thousand little paper birds could not make magical wishes come true. It left me wondering if I was hallucinating or had passed out drunk at the bottom of the stairs like some kind of degenerate. Because even if I believed Sherlock to be alive, I believed him to have moved on by now. Sherlock became bored easily and did not return to things that no longer held interest for him. So there was no way that Sherlock Holmes himself was standing before me and talking like this: like three years and a few odd months had not happened at all.

"You're not hallucinating," Sherlock said, and gave me a look that meant he was entertained, but not laughing, not yet. It was the expression that made his mouth a little softer and the tightness around his eyes a little more relaxed and I had missed it so much that I wanted to cry. "A little inebriated, but nothing more."

"_A little _is the understatement of the century..." I muttered under my breath, passing a trembling hand over my face. My arm began shaking from the exertion of keeping myself upright against the table. When I could manage it, I looked up again to see Sherlock still standing there, considering me with that stare reserved for experiments and crime-scene investigating. Behind the gaze, there was something; it was some kind of emotion that I had never seen before and therefore could not read.

Putting both hands onto the table before me, I steadied myself by gripping the sides of the wood until it bit into my palms. Breathing out harshly, I began slowly:

"And you're-"

"Real? John, do you have to ask such questions?" Sherlock asked, and my chest constricted a bit at the familiarity of that phrase. At least Sherlock was not rolling his eyes at me, which gave me hope that he had at least some sense of a decent manner in which to act in this kind of situation. But with all his familiar lines and angles and those _eyes_, I was not convinced, and it took all my bravery and strength to walk towards Sherlock, to put my hand out with the goal of touching the other man's shoulder. I did not even realize I was holding my breath, as if releasing it would break the spell of this wonderful hallucination and leave me desperate and alone again.

My hand shook in midair, fingers pulling back just short of touching, hesitant and unsure because I didn't know if it was truly real or a sick joke my own mind decided to pull. Just a few centimetres from him, I stopped, caught up in my own fears-what if my hand went right through him and Sherlock disappeared forever? I could feel those eyes upon me, watching, studying my internal struggle with an intensity I seriously doubted my own mind could have produced.

So with something hot and burning in my throat, I closed the gap.

My fingertips met a solid shoulder, shrouded in familiar tweed. They did not pass through the body like I had feared, remaining pressed there and quivering with all kinds of questions. Where had Sherlock been? Why had he not called? Why had he come back after all this time? But I could not ask, not yet, and could only focus on my hand touching his shoulder. Sherlock was real and warm and breathing and alive and all I could think was _by God if this is all a dream, don't wake me up_.

"You...you really are..." I couldn't form the words as I placed my palm against Sherlock's shoulder, partially over his chest. Was that his heartbeat or was it mine, pulsing in my own hand? Shuddering with fear and desire and _hope?_

"Of course, John," Sherlock answered, as if discussing the weather or football and perhaps his expression would have been that usual one of perpetual boredom, but I couldn't lift my head to look even if I had wanted. The tone suddenly snapped me back into the shoes of John Watson from three and a half years ago, who had enough life in him to get angry and riled up over a few poorly chosen words. It was the old John that made my hand clench into a fist...

...and punch Sherlock Holmes in the face as hard as I possibly could.

It was before I could stop or try to convince myself that this was not a good reunion to be having with the man you loved, but then I realized that this was not a normal situation; normal people did not pretend to be dead for three years and then come back like no time had passed at all. So I didn't feel as guilty as I should have when my knuckles cracked against Sherlock's cheek and sent him reeling, staggering backwards from the force of the blow. I had no idea if he was shocked or pained or pleased or all of those things because my eyes were blurred by all the frustrated, angry tears I had been keeping inside: all the pain from three and a half years alone with desperate dwindling hopes for this man who didn't have the decency to tell me _he was alive_.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are...the most _incorrigible_..._indecent_..._deplorable_ human being I _have ever met_," I said, enunciating each insult with a punch to Sherlock's chest, shoulder, arm or whatever else I could reach. My insults continued, though they weakened in impact and intensity as my physical strength began deserting me. The motions had burned out quickly on anger and were now weak attempts at the self-defense of my crumbling resolve to not take Sherlock back so easily. I wanted him to know that I was angry and that what he did to me was inexcusable and that I could never truly forgive him for it, but at the same time conveying how much I had _missed him_ and was so glad he was _finally_home.

When there was nothing left in me, I stopped and panted, saying nothing as I tried to rid myself of the shaking and the sweet taste of an adrenaline rush I hadn't felt since the last case we worked together. Sherlock, for once in his life, had the decency to not say anything, or perhaps I had dislocated his jaw and he _couldn't _say anything. I realized then that I had cornered him in the kitchen against the cabinets, where he stood, leaning slightly to the side while cradling his cheek, as if he didn't know what to make of the injuries I had inflicted upon him. Something about seeing that bemused, not-so-secretly relieved expression made it impossible for me to stop my tears. It also compelled me to close the distance between us without further thought. My arms went around Sherlock's neck, holding him softly at first, like I might break him if I held on too tightly, before I found myself clutching selfishly at him with the desire to feel his heat and breath and body against mine: so real and alive that I could have died from happiness.

"Does one...always regard persons of disdain in such a fashion?" Sherlock asked, and I wanted to hit him again for being a smart arse, but I could not do such a thing while I was left weakly clinging to this man who had come back from beyond the grave.

"Shut up, Sherlock," I said, against his shoulder, holding onto him and to that sweet-smelling coat like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Sherlock stayed quiet and eventually put his arms around me, holding me in a way that I knew proved he had never done such a thing before with anyone else. I should have felt badly about breaching his comfort zone, but I was fuck-all for caring about that. All those years alone had left me apathetic, or at least apathetic until I had cried all my sorrow and relief away. Then there was just the awkwardness between us that settled on my shoulders like a stone.

I had never been more embarrassed for my weaknesses and wanted to hide in shame.

"The tea is ready," Sherlock said, as if sensing my distress to remove myself from the situation.

"Yes, right," I replied, and moved away from him. Suddenly feeling more sober and more alive than I had felt for the last three years, I fixed the tea as Sherlock escaped into the living room. When I followed a few moments later, I found him standing, not sitting, and still wearing his coat. Immediately, my entire body was on edge.

"Sherlock-"

"You changed the room," he interrupted. I did not have to look around to know that he was correct. Sherlock seemed out of place in the living room that had become more like me and less like him. I suddenly wanted to throw all of my things out the window so that Sherlock could make it his again. Ashamed, I tried to explain.

"I did it because-"

"Irrelevant.," he replied, and I stopped. He did not take the tea and neither did I, because I was too afraid to make the motion and take my eyes off him now, where I was still convinced he could disappear at any moment. Instead, I watched him as he moved to the hearth. In the mirror above the mantle, I could see his eyes roaming over the various paper cranes I had left on display there.

"Art project or therapy?" Sherlock asked, picking up one of the birds with a bit of disinterest coloring his tone.

I didn't answer.

"Ms. Hudson is well," Sherlock said, not asked.

"Yes," I replied despite the fact it had been a statement.

Sherlock regarded my reflection.

"You lost weight," he said, and met my eyes in the mirror. I looked away, uncomfortable at the prying gaze.

"Where have you been?" I asked, finally asked like I wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on him. He kept his back to me for a long time and did not speak, his dexterous fingers toying with one of the larger cranes on the mantle.

"Many places," Sherlock answered after some time and before I could fight him and ask him to _not be so vague, _he turned to me and said simply: "I can't tell you, John." Something in his eyes said that he wanted to, but couldn't, and that he was just as much a prisoner as I had been for three years. The look in his eyes was familiar, sending my heart into a seizured fit of fear.

Moriarty.

So, Sherlock was not the only one who had lived that fateful day: Moriarty had as well. I felt suddenly dizzy and wanted to throw up and maybe even shoot something, just for the hell of it. But all I could do was grip the back of the nearest chair and swallow my feelings as best as I could.

"Still?"

"Still."

Silence between us, untouched by the one a.m. stream of quiet traffic outside.

"So you're not dead..." I said, hanging my head as I finished softly: "But you're not coming back...are you?"

"No."

The answer was so straight forward that I felt as if Sherlock had punched _me _this time. Again and again and again as he continued: "I came to tell you that. No need to keep clinging to these emotional vestiges from three years ago. I am dead and buried, so it is time to move on, John."

It was harsh and cold and so Sherlock that it hurt, but it was Sherlock as he had been to other people: never to me, because even when Sherlock was being cruel to me, there was always an undercurrent of softness in it. Now, there was none to be found. Maybe that's why it hurt even more than it should have. Hurt almost as much as Sherlock moving towards the door. He was leaving again: walking out of my life and leaving me alone to mourn and cry and die _loving _him once more. I could not just stand there and so I followed him, catching Sherlock by the sleeve before he could get down the stairs.

"Wait, Sherlock..." I said, hating the sound of begging in my voice. Sherlock stopped and turned to look up at me from the stair below. His face was a hard mask of stoicism and lines and beautiful, beautiful angles that it took my breath away.

"Don't," Sherlock said and maybe it was the light of the stairway window, bleeding in a sad sort of indigo that made his eyes look like they were begging too_._ It was the same sort of look that Sherlock had given me at Baskerville, when he said so open and honestly to me _I don't have friends. I've just got one_ but with that pleading _don't I?_ clinging to the end of it by a delicate thread. He was begging me now not to ask him to wait or to stay because as much as he wanted to, he _could not_.

And I understood.

I let go of his sleeve, but he did not leave. We stood there for the longest time, where I just stared into his eyes and tried to commit the colour to memory, for something so beautiful and lonely but trying so hard to be strong could not be forgotten. It was only after I felt I could breathe again that I asked:

"Then...don't I get a proper goodbye?"

I wasn't ready to say goodbye, but if I had to, I wanted no regrets this time. His eyes moved over my face, my body, and I wished he could see the me inside of me screaming _don't leave me again, please, please don't leave me..._But event though it was Sherlock, he could not see everything even if he wanted to. Besides, he had already made his decision.

He put out his hand, as if to give me a handshake.

"Goodbye, Dr. John Watson," he said, and I wanted to hit him for treating me like a stranger. A handshake was not how you said goodbye to a friend. For someone so smart, he could so dim witted.

I did not take his hand, but put my arms around him and after a moment, he put his arms around my waist like he was supposed to, without the same kind of awkwardness as before. With Sherlock on the step below, I was almost his height, so I didn't have to stand on tiptoe or pull on his neck and I fit _just right _against him like I was made to be there. It was my definition of _perfect_. But perfect was only temporary because we were standing on the stairwell and he had his coat on and was ready to leave and I would never see him again.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," I said against the collar of his jacket, and pulled back when I knew I had to let him go. I did not do so immediately, however, and with our close proximity and Sherlock's continuously sad eyes, I did what I knew I needed to do. I moved my hands to Sherlock's face and held him still as I kissed him for the first time. Unlike what some people said about that kind of thing, there were no fireworks or heated passion or feral intensity when our lips met. It was something else entirely: something quiet and beautiful and eternal, like seasons stretching through time and space with nothing but sunsets and music and fresh fallen snow. It was a first and last kiss: a greeting to love and a farewell to it all at once in the dark stairwell of 221b Baker Street. _I've missed you, I'll miss you, don't go, please, because I love you, and I'm sorry and goodbye_ all merged into that kiss. Because of it, I could feel hot tears under my eyelids, escaping down my cheeks, making my throat _burn _with the unfairness of it all.

Unfair because Sherlock Holmes was finally-_finally_-kissing me back.

He held me as he kissed me, mouth a bit unsure from lack of experience, but hands steady and warm against my back. I guided him through it, speaking to him without words so that he knew everything about what had happened to me while we were apart: my feelings, my regrets, and my impending sorrow at losing him.

I wanted him to know all of these things, because Sherlock Holmes did not deserve to die believing that no one loved him.

I didn't want to let go or have it stop, but it had to end or else tomorrow would be unbearable. We parted and I hastily wiped my eyes, sniffed once, and squared my shoulders to stand a little taller. I needed to be strong, just for another moment; just for Sherlock's sake.

"You should go," I said, as much as it pained me to do so. I had to make it easier on the both of us.

"John..." Sherlock replied, and I wished that he wouldn't say my name that way, as it only made it harder to keep my emotions from breaking down those barely-fortified walls again. And with Sherlock hesitating, I saw it as my opportunity to keep him there, even if it was for just a few seconds longer. Now, each unit of time was precious, and greedy as I was, I wanted more.

"But...before you...go...I want you to have something," I said, swallowing when my throat became dry and tight. I paused, put my hand into my jeans pocket, and removed my one-thousandth crane. I had shoved it into my pocket at the bar after paying my tab, unable to leave it behind like I had wanted to, which I was grateful for now. I held it out to him: an unimportant folded piece of paper with bleeding blue ink on the wings and a crushed head, but something that I had made thinking about him, and that made it special. Sherlock looked at it, as if not knowing what to do, so I explained: "Every time I thought of you, I made one of these, because someone once told me that if you make one-thousand paper cranes, you get one wish."

Sherlock took the crane into his hands, stared at the structure of it, most likely deducing the mechanics, the folds, and processes...but did he see the meaning in it as well? I could only hope he understood.

"How many did you make?" he asked after a moment of study, and his voice as as quiet as I ever heard it before.

I smiled, pain pinching at the corners of my lips.

"Guess."

Sherlock moved his thumbs over the wings of the crane, thoughts speeding so rapidly behind his eyes that I could not keep up with them.

"Did you get your wish?" Sherlock eventually asked me, eyes locking onto mine with such intensity that I thought I could not draw a single breath. The words did not come immediately, just another pained smile and the prickle of heated tears at the corners of my eyes as I managed to reply:

"Yes. Even if just for a moment, I did...and I'm so happy..."

The tears fell, glided down my cheeks unchecked, and I did not try to stop them, unable to keep up the strength of my facade. Sherlock's body made a slight motion, as if he were going to come close to me, perhaps embrace me again, but he stopped himself before that could happen.

"John," he began softly, and his eyes were downcast, looking at the stairs and our shoes and the crane in his hand because those were everywhere but my face. It wasn't because of any sort of dishonesty or embarrassment, but out of pure guilt for what he had done to me. "I'm...sorry."

"Don't," I said, and he finally looked up at me again. I nodded at him. Forgave him. "It's alright." I gestured to the crane with one shaking finger. "Take it with you...so you can...remember...sometimes..."

Sherlock's phone interrupted, buzzing in his pocket, but he did not make to answer it. I took that as my cue to hold him there no longer.

"Go on," I said, making a slight motion with my head for him to leave. Sherlock pocketed the paper bird, took two stairs, then three more before he stopped and looked up at me from the landing. It was as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't, so I did instead.

"Sherlock. You know, that if this...ends well somehow..." I paused and somehow smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a long time even though I was still crying. "Listen to me, I should be saying _when this ends well_-"

"John, I-"

"When this ends well," I interrupted him, and he let me. "Please come back home." Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction, as if that was the last thing he had expected to hear come from my mouth when it was the first and only thing I wanted to shout at him. Judging from his surprise, he truly did not know his worth or importance in the scope of his own world. He did not understand how he was _necessary_, not just for me, but for everyone...And perhaps he was so shocked that he could not form words, because his silence stretched out for the longest time. I could almost hear him thinking of the consequences and the possibilities and then shooting all of those small hopes and impossible dreams down entirely with whatever new reality had guided his life since his untimely death. Could I be enough to bring him back, or had I truly lost him forever?

It was my last chance-my last plea-but I couldn't tell Sherlock I loved him. I couldn't get the words to come out because it would feel too wrong and selfish and so all I could do was hang my head a bit and whisper: "...just know that someone is waiting for you to come home."

Sherlock's expression tightened and he turned away from me. Then he took another stair or two before stopping, almost to the door, and so far out of my reach that I could not pull him back now. I could not even see his face: just the black silhouette of his body hidden in shadow.

"You...might have to wait a long time..." Sherlock said, and those words alone spread warmth into my chest. _Hope_. He had renewed my hope that the future would not be dark and dismal and without color or light as I had thought, even if the prospect of that was far, far away.

"I know," I replied, because I did know. Even before his disappearance, I felt like I could never keep up with Sherlock in his fast-paced world, so I was always left waiting. I hated it, but I had grown accustomed to it; perhaps even become good at it. Yes, I had become good at waiting for him to return, always waiting with what he needed without having to be asked; knowing that Sherlock would always come home to me no matter what. It was all about waiting, which was what I hated the most, but did the very best.

Sherlock said nothing, but I saw his head nod curtly a single time, before he went to the door. His hand was on the knob, and it paused for only a fraction of a second before Sherlock turned his wrist and opened the door. I watched from the landing as he stepped out into the dying amber lamplight outside, sparing one last glance at me over his shoulder before the door closed softly behind him.

I hoped it would not be the last time.

Instead of going back to the living room, I sat down on the stair closest to the flat: the stair where I had kissed Sherlock Holmes and he had kissed me back and yet I could not tell him I loved him just as I could not tell him goodbye. There would be time for that later, I decided-I prayed- as I held onto my knees. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.

**pqpq**

**Shameless advertisement: **Looking for someone to RP Sherlock/John goodness with me. I'll play either character, I don't care. I just need some love in my life. Note me if you have the passion and energy for a new project.

Next chapter coming soon. Thanks for your support.

D


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry for the prolonged delay. It's graduate school application time, which means I've been crying to myself a lot while handing out piles of money in hopes that someone will want to accept me so they can take even more of my money.

Here's 10,000 words to make up for it, dearies.

**pqpq**

The next morning dawned gray and cold and February through the half-closed curtains.

I turned on my side to escape the offensive gloom, burying deeper into the recesses of the uncomfortable, flat pillows of the couch in search of some kind of refuge. At some ungodly hour, I had abandoned my stair for the sofa, where I had curled up and tried to sleep but could barely get any rest. I had been assaulted by dreams that all had to do with water and drowning and then when there was no air, unrelenting darkness. It was a scant few hours later that I woke to the sound of another day outside and to the thoughts of how wretched my existence had become without any sort of purpose in my life. It was then and only then that I felt like I could breathe for the first time in a long time, only to lose that feeling completely when I crashed into a harsher than harsh reality: Sherlock was alive, but he couldn't come home and I loved him, but I didn't have the strength to tell him. Useless, I was only good for a weak half-goodbye and an unknowable amount of time to wait.

It made dawn all the more unpleasant and unwelcome.

The stiff fingers of that morning prodded at me until I sat up, ran my hands over my unshaven face, and tried to determine if last night had truly happened. I had to doubt myself at first because it had been three years with no word from Sherlock and I had to wonder when I started to believe that having one thousand paper cranes would make wishes come true. Rubbing at my temples, I tried to dismiss it as a terrible hallucination induced by extended loneliness and too much alcohol. I rationalized that I _had _to have dreamed the entire thing, because my head felt full of gravel and I had really had consumed far too much alcohol to rightfully hold a medical license. I scolded myself for my lack of judgement, berating my faulty memory as a fantasy I had conjured out of desperation for a man I would never see again.

But then I realized that my knuckles ached. The fingers on my right hand had swollen up a bit: red and angry and still stinging.

And I had never been happier before for the sensation of pain.

I had punched Sherlock Holmes and this was my proof he had been standing right there in the living room only hours before with too many secrets behind his eyes and not enough strength to try to hide them from me. And the evidence that proved I had kissed him on the stairs and all but begged him to not to leave.

I could taste him on my lips and it made me miss him more than ever

My emotions ranged from anger to joy and I could feel myself smiling but there were tears on my cheeks. I hated myself for being so weak, but this situation was not something for which I could have ever prepared. The raw hurt of it left me breathless and defenseless against the onslaught of uncertainty.

How much longer would Sherlock keep me waiting? A few weeks, months, _years_?

I said I would wait and I said that without hesitating, but now he was absent and the prospect of more time without him...the possibility of perhaps _never _seeing him again... I wondered if I would have the strength to hold onto the hope of his possible return. And the thought of being alone again and never seeing his face or hearing his voice or tasting his lips again made my breaths shorten in panic.

_I just got you back. Why did I let you go? Why?_

Then, the panic and the fears and uncertainties and questions ceased. My heart calmed. I could breathe again and suddenly the morning was not as gloomy and cold as it had been moments before. I clasped my hands together and found myself smiling and no longer crying and that was definitely a good thing.

The facts were simple: Moriarty would be defeated. Then Sherlock _could_ come home and he _would _come home. I hated myself for that moment of weakness: for doubting the man I loved even for a second. I had not given up on him in three years because I had always known him to be alive. I would not give up on him now. I would never give up on him. He would come home and he would come home soon.

Because I believed in Sherlock Holmes.

**pqpq**

I showered and shaved to make myself look half-way decent before heading out to conduct a matter of great importance.

I went to see Mycroft.

He pretended to be surprised to see me, but I knew that he knew about this visit probably before I had even decided to come. Still, he went through all the formalities of greeting someone absent from the usual social circles for a few years and even shook my hand like we were friends. I tried not to grip too hard, because I knew I would not let go until I had broken every bone in his hand. I was angry at Mycroft for withholding so much information from me for so many years, but I quelled my rage and supposed that he had his reasons. He had better have reasons, or else I would have absolutely no reason _not _to hurt him.

The rational side of me wanted to understand why he had done such a thing, and somehow it managed to suppress the awakening side of me that wanted to _punch him in the bloody face _for lying about the most important aspect of my life.

"John, it's been a...long time," he said, and he had those same, sad eyes from three years ago that I had not wanted to question. Now, facing off with him in an uncomfortable leather arm chair, I found that I still did not want to ask. Mycroft still had that mourning look to him that was too genuine to be an act and I had to wonder just what had caused it. But just as I was starting to feel empathetic, he continued with an almost innocent: "May I inquire as to the nature of this visit?"

A Holmes could so easily get me riled up with just a few words.

"You lied to me," I said, quelling the urge to shout. I kept my hands on the arms of the chair to prevent them from clenching into fists. I couldn't hurt Mycroft. Not yet, anyway. It took all the self-restraint I had when Mycroft's expression did not change despite my declaration. The anger simmered in my chest when the other man said nothing, merely let the silence stretch between us. I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, debating on what words to use in order to defend himself in such a delicate situation.

Always the diplomat.

"Why?" I asked, when he said nothing. And once again: no reply. It left me seething as I could do nothing but watch as Mycroft stood up from his chair. He turned his back to me to look out the window at the gray landscape beyond. Somehow, his shoulders seemed a bit smaller than the last time I had seen him. I waved off the empathy before I could let it affect me again.

"I'm sorry, John," he said, and my rage dissipated almost instantly. I was so stunned that I did not know what to say. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that a Holmes had apologized to me; such a thing was unprecedented. "All of this...was for your protection. Sherlock...was not keen on this course of action, but when your safety was jeopardized..." He stopped and looked at me with a vestige of his old intensity. "Well...these past few years have been difficult for all of us."

It got my blood hot and bothered because Mycroft had no idea what _difficult_ meant to _me_.

"I could have helped somehow," I said, and it came out accusatory but I didn't care about hurting Mycroft's feelings after what I had been through. "If you would have told me and not lied to me about all of this, I could have done _something_, _anything_, to help Sherlock. I was a soldier, Mycroft! I could have gone with him and _protected _him! Instead-"

"Moriarty's network is extensive," Mycroft interrupted. "As good as your intentions are-and always have been-you would have been nothing but a hindrance."

"A _hindrance_?" I repeated, almost spitting the word. I had risen from my chair and my hands were trembling in tight fists by my sides. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding away angrily in my ears. The rage had taken over completely at the blame. I hated this side of me, but I could barely control it when such hurtful assumptions were tossed around so carelessly. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself _and_ Sherlock as well. Mycroft of all people should have known that and I made such knowledge perfectly clear, my voice turning lower, colder: "I never have been a _burden_, Mycroft, and you _know it._"

He sensed my hostility and yet his face did not change. There was no fear in his posture as he turned his back to me, clasped his hands, and contemplated the view once more.

"Forgive my poor choice of vocabulary," Mycroft said, voice soft. For the second time, I found myself caught off-guard. I swayed on the spot, but did not back down from my offensive stance. He continued: "You were not a hindrance or a burden. You have done so much for my brother that the words are misplaced. Unfortunately, in the current situation, you have inadvertently _become_ one." Mycroft paused, opened his top left desk drawer, and withdrew a manila folder from it. "You see, never before did we believe we would have to be concerned with Sherlock's _heart_."

"His _heart_?" I asked, and I felt hollow suddenly as I recalled the look on Sherlock's face, that night at the pool when Moriarty had me strapped to explosives and promised _I'll burn the heart out of you_. The expression in Sherlock's eyes had been something I could not identify until much later: something beyond fear. It was that terrifying fear of losing something precious; something irreplaceable. And it was the fear of not knowing what to do in the absence of that one truly important thing. _I'll burn the heart out of you_. Was that what Moriarty had threatened right before he and Sherlock tumbled headfirst into those icy depths together?

"My brother," Mycroft began, calling forth my divided attention, "has always had...barriers when it came to emotions, which is why he never truly had a friend. Enemies, plenty. Tolerated acquaintances, few. But friends, none. None until you came along. You changed him, John." Mycroft closed his desk drawer, holding the folder in his hands as he returned to his chair. "Sherlock had always been a great man, but you made him a _good _one. Unfortunately, good men do not fair well in the Game."

When he looked at me, I felt as if I couldn't breathe.

"You, John Watson, became something Sherlock could not bear to lose, which is why he had to let you go."

I felt full of broken glass because all those times that Sherlock had looked so sad and thought I couldn't see came to mind and I felt stupid and sick for not realizing it earlier. I had crippled Sherlock more than helped him. That realization made my knees weak and I all but fell back into my chair. So...I was to blame for all of this?

I squeezed my aching leg until it hurt.

"No," I said, and it was weakly, with the last bit of air in my lungs, because I did not want that to be the truth. I wanted to be the reason Sherlock smiled. I did not want to be the cause of his death.

I did not want to be the thing that kept him from coming back home.

"This is the evidence," Mycroft replied, and handed me the folder. With numb hands, I took it: opened it, glanced at the top few photographs, then closed it again. The first few images told me everything I needed to know. They were all pictures of me: everyday snapshots outside the grocery, on the street, in the back of a cab. All had my face in the dead center of a scope's target with a bulls-eye directly on my forehead. "Those were the threats on your life: your death warrant created by Jim Moriarty."

"Why..." I asked, even though I knew the answer. I held out the folder for Mycroft to take from me, because I couldn't bear to look any further through its contents.

"To break Sherlock," Mycroft replied, taking the folder back from me. "It was all to make him play the Game. Either you died or he would, so Sherlock chose himself."

My heart ached with so much love for Sherlock that I felt as if it were being crushed.

"All of this was for you, John," he continued, and his voice was softer than I had ever heard it. "I hope one day you can understand that...and forgive him."

I stared my shoes and his shoes and the carpet without saying anything for a few moments. Somewhere in me, I found enough strength to smile a bit and try for some kind of lightheartedness.

"I feel kind of bad, now...that I punched him," I said sheepishly. To my surprise, Mycroft chuckled a bit.

"He has had that coming for years. I assure you that he deserved it," Mycroft answered.

I wanted to keep smiling, but it just wouldn't stay on my lips. The seriousness of the situation-of the revelation-had struck me deeply. The silence lapsed for a few seconds as I collected my thoughts and hated myself more than ever for wanting to bring up the following request. But I had to ask because I knew that if I did not, I would not have the strength to do so later.

"Mycroft, can you do something for me?"

"I can certainly do my best," he answered, which was as close to a promise as I could get.

"If...If Sherlock..._dies_," I nearly choked, but held it back. "If that happens...I want to see him...It's the only way I..."

I stopped and Mycroft looked at me. I hoped that he understood. It would be the only way I could finally say goodbye: to Sherlock and to myself. Something must have registered, because that look of sorrow in his brown eyes grew deeper as he nodded and said:

"You have my word."

**pqpq**

After my conversation with Mycroft, my life picked up with its boring routine, only this time the dull, agonizing waiting was characterized by the sudden fear of a shiny black car pulling up to the flat in order to bring me to a morgue where I would see Sherlock lying dead on a table and know that I had lost him forever. Then, I would be completely alone. The thoughts that crippled me during the day entered into my dreams so that I could barely sleep at night.

I spent more time staring at the ceiling than I ever had in my life.

A week or so after I had seen Sherlock, I went into his room after waking from one of these dreams, which left me feeling lost and in need of something familiar. I sought the comfort of his space, his things, and his rapidly fading scent. When I weakly cowered from my own bed, down the stairs and into his room, it was almost as if...something had changed. I couldn't place it right away, but then I closed my eyes and instantly pinpointed the difference. His scent was stronger-no longer half-faded like dust and age-like he had just been there moments before, but had dashed out in a rush.

The image of Sherlock's excitement to get to one crime scene or another entered my mind and I found myself standing there-lost between two moments in time-in my pyjamas and no robe, but smiling despite the cold chilling my bare feet.

I missed him more than ever and it made that hot, hard thing in my throat want to start acting up again.

But I wouldn't let it get the best of me, like I had let my loneliness take over in the form of hundreds of cranes scattered all about Sherlock's room, peppering every surface like fresh fallen, multi-colored snow. I squared my shoulders and resolved to make tea and watch the telly for a bit because that was always distracting.

However, something caught my attention. Something out of place and wrong and most certainly had not been there before: Sherlock's scarf. It lay across the pillows and coverlet, as if Sherlock had whipped it off and abandoned it there in pursuit of something more interesting. I hesitated for only a moment. When I touched it, it was real: the soft, silky material that had been well-loved and cared for...why had Sherlock left it behind? For one moment, I felt hopeful that it had been left for the sole purpose of my discovering it.

I did not want to let that moment go, so I didn't.

**pqpq**

There were three pills.

They were in an orange bottle that I kept on the nightstand next to my bed. When I went out, the bottle went into the left hand pocket of my coat. They were important to me, so I never let them out of my sight.

It had been hard at first to determine what combination to choose from, but after some more work at the surgery and helping out in the pharmacy located on-site, I eventually settled on a beautiful trinity of thoughtful engineering.

There were three pills and only three. There was a white one to put me into a deep, deep sleep. Then there was a pink one that would react with the white, informing my slumbering brain that truly, it did not need to keep my lungs breathing in and out as often as they should. Then there was the blue one that caressed the white and the pink with its supreme, final beauty.

That was the pill that would stop my heart.

I chose that combination because it would not be violent or abrupt. It would be slow, but it would be peaceful and on my own terms. I wouldn't feel pain or despair or anger. I wouldn't feel love or regret and I would be so far removed from my own mind and body that I would not be plagued with memories of the man who had left me behind.

And I would only take these pills when faced with the truth: that I was completely alone in this world.

But while Sherlock was alive, the pills stayed in their orange bottle, on the nightstand next to my bed, or in the left hand coat of my pocket.

Waiting.

**pqpq**

Two weeks passed and then three and then a month, and I found myself back into my old habit of counting days. I had nothing to do now that I was done folding cranes, though sometimes I found myself doing it without realizing: using scrap bits of post-its and receipts from the co-op. I don't know what I was wishing for, but I knew I wanted to stop, because wishing things did not make things happen.

People made things happen.

I had to use my cane almost all the time because I kept bombarding myself with this statement again and again: I was the one who had caused all of this. I was to blame.

I took all of the paper cranes and all my thoughts and wishes and shoved them into giant cardboard boxes. Then I taped the boxes shut and put them in the closet and tried not to feel so empty.

**pqpq**

It was a Thursday and I had just pulled a double shift at the surgery, so when I got out it was three in the morning and cold. I wanted to go home and sleep, but I knew I wouldn't and it made me limp even slower than before. There would be no rest and there would be no escape from all of this waiting. There would be only more exhaustion and more waiting for Sherlock to come back, only to find that I he was not there which would only lead to more disappointment.

It had been three months now and no word.

Three months. I stopped and stood at the corner of Baker Street for the longest time because I felt lost and hurt and more alone than ever.

I don't know when I started crying, I just knew that it was hard to stop.

Luckily there were no people out and no lights on in the surrounding windows, because it was three in the morning and everyone was normal so they were asleep. I was not normal and I could never sleep and at that moment, I had never been happier for three in the morning because no one could see me crying. The thought of myself desperately clinging to normality all those years ago made me want to laugh, but it was more of that hysterical sort that made people nervous. So, I didn't laugh. Instead, I wiped at my cheeks until they were raw, but the tears kept coming and I couldn't stop them, so I eventually gave up and just let them fall.

My pocket buzzed, breaking the quiet and my solitary so abruptly that it nearly startled me into collapse.

It had been a short vibration-just a text-which was strange because Harry had stopped that years ago after getting sober and engaged. It was even even stranger because I didn't have friends and Ms. Hudson did not have a mobile with SMS and it was three in the morning and the only one that used to send me texts like that was Sherlock. But Sherlock had been gone for so long and no one ever texted me, so after nearly four years I barely knew what to do with myself.

Numbly, I pulled my phone from my pocket.

_**One new message.**_

I opened it.

_Don't cry. _  
><em>SH<em>

I read the words and felt the breath leave my lungs entirely, as if I were suffocating. My cane fell from my shaking hand to the ground and I followed, unable to remain upright. My thumbs moved over the screen over and over again, disbelieving and yet, wanting it to be real. Wanting it so much. His words on the screen, just those two words, and I was undone.

_I miss you._

Was all I could say. His response came almost immediately:

_I'm so sorry, John. _  
><em>SH<em>

Even though it was only text, I felt like I was speaking to him face-to-face and seeing those eyes again from the stairwell telling me with all that blue and indigo to not to make it any harder on him. I couldn't bear to make him suffer any longer, so I answered.

_I'm sorry._

I found myself swallowing thickly, watching as the text blurred before my eyes as I tried to reach out to him with the last bit of strength I had left. I had to reach out to him before he disappeared again; I had to tell him before he slipped right through my fingers for an unknowable amount of time. Even if it was wrong and selfish, I had to. I just had to say these words to him, even if they meant nothing at all.

_I love you_.  
><em>Please come home<em>.

It bounced.

_**Message not delivered. **_

I tried resending.

_**Message not delivered.**_

Again.

_**Message not delivered.**_

I called.

_This number is no longer in service. _

And again.

_This number is no longer in service._

After that, I didn't try to stand up and collect myself. I just sat there for the longest time and kept trying. I kept texting and calling and praying and hoping to _God_ that the universe would take pity on me. One line of text. One word. That was all I wanted in the entire world. That was all I needed to keep my heart from breaking beyond repair. And that was why I didn't give up: because I _couldn't _give up. So, I kept texting.

And calling.

And praying.

And crying.

_I love you._  
><em>Please come home.<em>  
><em>Please come home, Sherlock. <em>

_**Message(s) not delivered. **_

_Please._

_I love you._

**pqpq**

I stopped counting days.

I had been a prisoner to counting them, each day and within it, each hour, each minute. Then I thought that if I forgot about time, I would forget about the agony of waiting and maybe, just maybe, I could go through a short period of time when I was not thinking about Sherlock. These were all hopeless, futile thoughts. The days streamed into unending sequence. I recall that when I woke one day it was Monday and by the time I realized it was nighttime, it was already Thursday. I began missing shifts at the surgery.

Eventually they let me go.

"Dear, you've got to cheer up. It'll be alright," Ms. Hudson said to me one evening, when she brought up tea. I could tell she forced the smile, hiding the worry behind her eyes. She always did when I went through my cycles of seemingly getting better only to be worse off than before. If she knew half of the things I did about myself, she would have me committed. Well-adjusted people don't cling to their cellphones all night, not daring to sleep in case one line of text finally came through. That was something for people in mourning, and I know that by now everyone believed my time should have ended years ago. I should be moving on and yet, the thought of tomorrow made me want to die.

"John, why don't you go out for a bit? Maybe meet up with some friends? It's getting cheery out," Ms. Hudson said, when I had lapsed into an idle silence. Beyond her shoulder, I could see the snow falling outside.

"Maybe I will," I answered hollowly and did not try to smile. So she gave me one of her strained smiles instead and patted my arm before leaving me alone to my thoughts. I didn't want to think, however, and so I eventually got up. I put on my coat and Sherlock's scarf and left the flat.

The cold air assaulted me on a walk that took me absolutely nowhere. I limped about the streets for a while with my head down, feeling my ears and nose and lips turn frigid from the wind. I did not go inside to hide from it, because all the places were filled with happy, cheerful voices and people laughing and I couldn't bear that kind of company.

Ahead of me, walking down the street, I spotted a familiar face: it was Molly. Her hair was a little shorter and her laugh a little lighter than it had been a few years ago. She had her arm around the arm of another man and her eyes were on him like he was the only thing in the world.

Her eyes passed over me as the two dashed out across the street during a break in traffic, laughing with their hands clasped firmly together.

She did not recognize me.

I spent the rest of the night wandering the city like the ghost I had become.

**pqpq**

I received a call from the surgery a few days later about Georgia James.

She had been hospitalized due to complications with her cystic fibrosis and because I was dying too, I went to see her. After fainting at a school function because of her inability to get enough oxygen, Georgia had been admitted to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Having spent so much time there, I found her room easily enough.

Ms. James was asleep in her chair by Georgia's bedside. The girl in question was fast asleep as well. On her tray table sat a tiny, red crane. I stood in the doorway for the longest time and looked at her because I couldn't even begin to comprehend the bravery of that little girl. She was sick and dying and needed new lungs that would probably never come. She knew this and yet, she kept wishing and hoping.

She kept praying.

I gripped the cell phone in my pocket with all my strength. There had been no word from Sherlock after that night and I did not expect him to contact me again. It had been risky, I deduced later, because the call could have been traced and put him into danger. As much as I fought with myself on the matter, I knew that I would rather have Sherlock safe rather than have him expose himself to Moriarty for my sake. As much as it hurt, I just had to keep up this vigil. I had to keep waiting. When I looked at Georgia, I hoped that I would not be waiting in vain.

And if she could keep praying, then so could I.

**pqpq**

I went home and pulled all the paper cranes out of their boxes. Then I spent hours and hours poking holes in their bodies and running thread through them. I had bandages on my thumbs and pointer fingers by the end of it, but there was something beautiful about nine-hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes strung together in rainbow mobiles.

The next day I brought the paper cranes to the hospital.

Georgia's face lit up when I hung them in the window. The permanent band around my heart relented in its constricting grip for a moment and I was able to smile as well. I found a bit of hope in that, because maybe it meant I wasn't dead after all.

**pqpq**

It kept snowing.

The days all turned white and long and cold and my leg hurt more than I thought possible. I could barely get up out of bed and when I could, I sat in my chair for most of the day and I hated it. The monotony broke sharply one day, when I received a text. It was with pale, shaking hands that I took up my phone.

_**One unread message.**_

I did not hesitate to open the message. I did not recognize the number, but that told me everything I needed to know.

_Take the Jubilee to Kingsbury._  
><em>1400.<em>  
><em>SH<em>

And before I could be ecstatic, my phone buzzed again with a secondary message.

_Could be dangerous._  
><em>SH<em>

Then, I wanted to cry because it was like four years had not passed at all and it was only Sherlock Holmes who could make me dash across the city for him.

So, I dressed and ran out the door and to the nearest underground entrance. It wasn't until I was halfway through the wicket that I realized I had left my cane behind, but I could not be fucked to care. I took the cramped Jubilee to Kingsbury like the text said. It was 1355 when I arrived on the platform, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I looked for him over businessmen and women's heads and all the tourists with their hats and backpacks, but there was no sign of him.

Then the clock struck 1400 and the trains began to move: the one I had just departed heading for Queensbury and the opposite in transit to Neasden. I stood there with my hands in my pockets and watched as they left, keeping my head down as the rush of the train chilled me to my bones. Around me, people took to the exits towards their various destinations with all their color and noise and their purposeful lives and everything that I didn't have in me anymore. I felt like I could never experience that again, because the one person I had wanted to see was already gone. I had missed him, surely. Sherlock had been here and I had missed him and it might have been my very last chance. All I could think about was how life was just too cruel to be real sometimes.

And my leg _hurt_.

I sniffed, but didn't cry. My entire body had gone numb with disappointment. I didn't want to move or think about moving ever again, because that meant having somewhere to go. And I had nowhere to go.

My pocket buzzed.

I ignored it for only a moment before taking up the phone.

_**One unread message**_**.**

I clicked on my mailbox.

_Look up._  
><em>SH<em>

I did.

On the opposite platform stood the man I thought I would never see again. Sherlock had his hands in his pockets and he had that small, almost unsure smile on his lips that I found endearing and wonderful and God, I had _missed him so much_. But I didn't stop to look at him for long because I had no time to waste.

I ran.

I ran to the end of the platform and pushed past the wicket booth to hastily buy another pass as quickly as I could manage. I didn't care about the coins falling out of my wallet as I dashed to the opposite end and pushed past a group full of tourists without even caring about their shouts of anger. And then I ran all the way to the end of the southbound platform with my breaths rising up in white clouds, not stopping when the cold made my chest burn with pain and joy and _life_.

I felt so alive.

That moment snuffed out like the flame from a burning candle when I arrived: the train was already there and the platform was empty. The doors had already closed.

In the last car, I saw Sherlock's distinctive form standing beside the exit and I ran to him. His expression through the dirty glass was uncertain: something between troubled and sad. I wanted to hold that face in my hands and look him in the eyes and keep him there forever. But there was a wall between us and I felt too weak to do anything but hang my head in submission to this fate of ours. All I could do was rest my palm against the glass: a last testament to my desperate want to be close to him.

But he was still so far beyond my reach.

On the other side of the glass, I saw his hand move, raising up just a bit so that the tips of his fingers touched mine. And then the train jerked a bit as it began to move and I had to pull my hand away even though I didn't want to. I don't know what possessed me, but I followed the train, running to keep up with it as it sped down the tracks. I didn't care that it was cold and people were staring and I would never catch that train, I just did not want to lose sight of Sherlock's eyes.

Not ever again.

But then the train was too fast and I knew it was futile and at the end of the platform, I felt my leg collapse under me. I went down onto the cold concrete and scraped the skin clean off my hand, but I didn't care. When I looked up, I could no longer see him. The train had already sped off and I was too far away and Sherlock was gone.

Hands tried to help me up, but I shrugged them off and tried to insist that I was fine and smile to everyone to show that I really was alright and not to worry. And then they caught their trains and left me alone on the platform bench with nothing but my aching leg and the stinging of dirt in my palm. I felt heated pinpricks at the corners of my eyes but I fought them and pressed my thumb into my hand to stop the bleeding and the pain helped to distract me, but not much.

My pocket vibrated.

_**One unread message**_

I hesitated for a moment before opening it.

_It's almost over, John._  
><em>Please, don't cry. <em>  
><em>SH<em>

I wanted to tell him that I wouldn't, but I knew the message wouldn't send, like all the others. But I didn't cry because I knew that he hated it and he had asked me not to. So instead I sat there with my leg and my bleeding hand and my heart all hurting as the rush hour crowds came and went. And then it got dark outside and cold and the trains came at intervals further and further apart, but I still didn't have the strength to get up and leave.

It was near ten p.m when my phone vibrated again.

_**One unread message**_

I stared at the screen for a long time, blinking at the harsh glow in the limited light the Underground sign. After an eternity, I opened the message.

_It's time to go home, John._  
><em>Mycroft Holmes <em>

So I got on the next train and went home.

**pqpq**

Georgia James died because no one else had died to give her a set of lungs.

There was fresh snow on the ground at her funeral and everyone was crying because it wasn't fair. I couldn't look at Ms. James because that wouldn't be fair either. She was burying her child on a cold winter day, surrounded by Georgia's friends: all forlorn faces with reddened eyes dressed in matching school uniforms. Words were said and it was blessed and beautiful and sad. When it came time to say a final goodbye, people lined up to the coffin. Ms. James was first, but she didn't have a rose to put in her daughter's casket: just a solitary paper crane.

And then I realized that no one had roses at all.

Georgia's friends put cranes of all colors and sizes around her. And then her relatives added ones made of beautiful, heavy stationary in creams and golds. Then I added my own: one made of pink Steno paper that I had folded on a whim earlier that day while getting coffee. Whims must have meant something after all because Georgia had been one hundred cranes away from her wish before she died. On that day, in that graveyard, with all that snow on the ground and tears that would not stop falling, we helped her reach one thousand paper cranes. And when it was all said and done, there was a little girl lying among paper birds inside her coffin, looking so peaceful in her eternal sleep.

What was it for? I wondered this as they closed the lid and lowered her into the frozen earth and then covered it with dirt. I wondered what it was all for because wishing did not do anything at all. Wishing did not save this brave, bright little girl. One thousand paper cranes did not save her.

I wanted to say _I'm sorry _but I couldn't manage it.

I stood there and looked at her headstone and thought about the cranes and the fervent hopes and how magic wasn't real because people made things happen, not wishes. Then I thought of where I had been and what those cranes had done for me and even though I was sad now, I knew that Sherlock was alive and maybe one day I would get to be with him again. Those cranes had gotten me through the years that would have killed me otherwise. They gave hope to the hopeless. They gave light to the lost.

"Thank you," I said, because I would be dead and buried in the ground too if I hadn't clung to hope; if I had ceased to believe in Sherlock Holmes.

But I believed in him and I loved him and he would come back. And even if there was no science for wishes and miracles, I believed that everything would be okay. I knew that everything would be okay.

"Thank you for saving my life," I said.

I looked up at the sky and I could only hope that she was flying somewhere beautiful.

**pqpq**

_It's almost over _is what he had said.

But _almost_ was so relative and subjective to what I considered_ almost _and so I was left to wait again. So, I did and tried to take care of myself, but my hands shook too badly to get any sort of job and I was not able to be sociable with people when they expected it. I had lost so much weight that my clothes hung off my body unattractively and I really needed to fix all that but I couldn't be bothered.

Until one afternoon when I received a text.

_Let's have dinner. _  
><em>Angelo's. <em>  
><em>1800.<em>  
><em>SH<em>

I will not lie: I cried.

It was all out of relief and happiness instead of sorrow. The thought of sitting down with Sherlock to dinner made my heart soar. It wasn't a figure of speech: my heart did a lifting sort of thing in my chest that I could not explain medically and I felt like smiling for the first time in a long, long time.

I showered and shaved and cared about which way to part my hair for the first time in years. Then I tore apart my wardrobe and eventually found something that I could tuck in enough to look half-way respectable. From the outside it would look as if I were getting dressed to impress a beautiful date. But it was not a date: it was a reunion. And even if Sherlock did not feel the same way I did, it would be alright. It would be enough, as long as I could have him by my side forever.

I could only hope that this was the night Sherlock could come home.

So at 1730, I stepped out and Ms. Hudson stared as if she had no idea who I was at first. And then she kissed me on the cheek and looked so_ happy _for me, like she thought I was moving on with my life. If only that poor woman knew. But I was glad that she didn't because perhaps the night would not end like I thought, and I would be back to chasing Sherlock's shadow again. I tried not to think about that sort of outcome and attempted to see if I could remember how to smile without crying. I practiced along the way, but I felt silly and stopped after a few blocks, instead opting to keep my head down and hands in my pockets.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I found myself greeted by Angelo himself. He looked just as he had all those years ago. It felt like only yesterday Sherlock and I were sitting at the front table, chasing the killer of the lady in pink. Nostalgia made me shaky and Angelo noticed because he asked if I wanted a drink and I accepted because I felt like I was going to fall down. I downed the liquid, not even bothering to ask what it had been because I had not even registered the taste. Whatever it had been, though, it made my hand stop trembling and I was grateful.

"Special table for you tonight," Angelo said with a wink, and led me past the couples dining by candlelight and into the loud kitchen that smelled like dish soap and olive oil. The cooks did not look up from their work as he led me past their stations and to a narrow back stairwell. It opened into the apartments above the restaurant. Creaky, peeling stairs brought me to a faded beige door with the brass numbers 77C above the peephole. I stared for a while, not knowing what to do and jumped when I felt Angelo's hand on my shoulder.

"Go in. I'll be back with dinner," he told me, and disappeared down the stairs. I stood on the landing and listened to him leave before I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door shuddered as I pushed it open and the hinges squeaked, but I did not take too much notice. I was too busy taking in the candles and the soft music and the sight of Sherlock Holmes standing in the middle of a modestly lived-in and run-down living room.

The sight of him froze me where I stood: in the doorway, unable to move.

This was what I had wanted all along, and I could not even come up with a single syllable to say. I guess I could not believe that he was there and not in some distant location on the other end of a cell phone, or on the other side of a gritty glass window. It had been almost a half year since I had been so close to him and I was overwhelmed by him entirely: still the same tall frame, pronounced cheekbones. But he looked even more tired than the last time and I wondered if I was to blame for that too.

"I can't stay long," Sherlock said, filling the silence. The way he said it struck me hard and I nodded mutely, fighting the disappointment as best as I could. Apparently _almost over _meant even more waiting. I licked my dry lips and tried to think of something to say, but the words would not come. "John?" His voice came out softer and he had come closer, but I still could not move.

"I know," I said finally, tilting my head just slightly so I didn't have to look into his eyes and focused instead on his shoulder. As much as I wanted him to see how much this was killing me, I didn't want to burden him with that knowledge. So, I tried to clot that bleeding wound of mine and managed a little half-smile for a few seconds before it fell from my lips. "Almost, right?"

"Almost," Sherlock answered and he was right there in front of me. I leaned forward just a bit and rested my forehead against his shoulder, feeling exhausted by all the anxiety and waiting and not sleeping at night with the hopes that he might message. Maybe he knew, because Sherlock put his arms around me and held me in place. "Almost, I promise."

"Okay," I said against the collar of his shirt as I moved my arms around his waist and clung loosely to his coat. I nodded resolutely as I told myself I would wait. I had to wait, just a little while longer.

Just a little longer.

"Okay."

We didn't talk much after that and we didn't eat because Angelo never returned. I was fine with this because Sherlock could not stay long and I wanted every last second I could get. We moved from the doorway to the living room, but he did not let me stray from his arms and I did not want to. I think we were dancing, though our steps did not match the music at all. It was just the two of us holding onto one another and not wanting to let go.

The clock on the wall struck eight and Sherlock's arms loosened around me, so I released my hold on him and let him go. There was nothing else I could do except stand there and prepare myself as best as I could to watch him leave me behind once again. He had that look in his eyes and he had pulled his gloves out of his coat pockets and all I could wonder was what he was doing and when I could see him again. There had to be something I could do. I could not just wait around any longer.

Because people made things happen, not wishes.

"Sherlock...I-"

"No," he interrupted, as if he already knew what I was about to ask. He had shot me down without giving a reason as to why I could not go with him.

"Why?" I asked, and felt some of the numbness receding a bit to my wounded pride. "You know that I-" Before I could even begin to argue my point, Sherlock was there and all around me with his lips pressing hard and possessive against mine. My mind reeled and I forgot how to breathe and think and stand all at once because all my focus had centered entirely on Sherlock's lips. I kissed him back, not bothering to be gentle because I was angry and I wanted him to know it. But Sherlock dominated me and pressed me so hard against the wall that I felt his fingers forming bruises. There was a desperation there I had never felt before, like Sherlock was so afraid of losing me he could not hold on tight enough. Eventually, I submitted to him and his hands because Sherlock was a force of nature and I could never fight him for long.

I never wanted to fight him for long.

When he pulled away, we were separated by only a few centimeters. I could see the redness of his lips and the beautiful flush of color in his cheeks. Beneath his dark lashes, there lay two crescents of gray-green taking me in with an amount of level intensity I had never experienced before from Sherlock.

"Because you're mine and I will not let Moriarty have you," Sherlock answered, and his lips were still so close to mine that I could feel every heated breath upon the release of each syllable. His eyes were possessive and dangerous and so breathtaking that I felt my heart skipping beats left and right. The genuine words had warmed me and fueled that kindling of love for him even more.

"Sherlock..." I said, and I think I gasped it, because I had never heard such a tone in Sherlock's voice and I did not know whether to be scared or pleased by it. Maybe Sherlock sensed this because his eyes lost their iciness afterwards, bleeding into something more liquid: pained and searching and honest than I had ever seen.

"John. If he takes you away... I will die," he whispered to me, each word tainted with fear. But it was not fear for himself: it was for me. He was afraid for me. I loved him as much as I hated him for shouldering all of that and pretending to be dead in an effort to protect me.

"And you think that it's any different for me?" I asked softly, but I could tell from the look Sherlock gave me that I appeared anything but calm. "How do you think_ I_ would feel?" I gripped the front of his coat and before I knew it, I was the one kissing Sherlock with bruising force. I was not about to let him get away from me, not a second time. "I've already buried you once. I'm _not _going to do it again," I said-I swore-and made sure that every emotion I felt settled into my expression so that Sherlock could read it and understand: he was not the only person at risk for heartache.

"John..."

"No," I said authoritatively, before he could continue. I felt angry and vulnerable and so afraid, but I was alive and Sherlock was too, so that was all that mattered. Reaching up, I took his face in my hands and made him look at me. All of the words that I thought would never leave my mind escaped my lips: "You're mine and no one else can have you. I will kill Moriarty with my own hands if I have to."

He said nothing and did not smile, but his eyes were the happiest I had seen them in years. He leaned in and kissed me again, but the sensation was much different from before. It came through as something soft, like that night on the stairwell, with nothing but love and affection in the gesture. Just the simple press of his lips against mine soothed the anger and possessiveness out of me completely. Sherlock kissed me beautifully and he kissed me for a stretch of time in which I forgot about the loneliness and hurt and anger and did not think about funerals or barely-sleeping at night with a cell phone clutched tightly against my palm. I just knew that he wanted to keep me safe as much as I knew that I would gladly die for him.

And I knew that I belonged to no one but him and he belonged to me and only me.

It was just like flying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: You've all been so kind with your reviews and your watches and favorites. Thank you so very much if I haven't responded to you personally. The reason for the delay in this chapter is because I'm currently in a creative writing course and my professor is making me think twice about myself and my abilities. I hope that this chapter was worth the wait with all the semi-good things that happen in it.

Also, if you want an excellent song to listen to while reading the very last section, I highly recommend looking up The Cinematic Orchestra and their songs: _Arrival of the Birds_ and _Transformation_. There's something existentially beautiful about it.

**pqpq**

Since humans are not born with wings, the sensation of flying did not last for long.

It made coming back down to Earth the hardest thing imaginable because reality was stark and tangible, leaving the two of us standing there amongst the ruins of that place we had only temporarily escaped. Here, we had returned to the pain and the anguished waiting and the words we had said and yet to say and the weight of all those things we had done. The music had stopped playing some time ago and the candles had burned out and it was far too past eight for Sherlock to have done anything but overstay. Outside, the traffic increased with nightlife; laughter and music wafted up to the third floor where we stood in that flat, trying to deal with the fact that _almost_ was not _now_ and it was time to say goodbye again.

We did not use words because they were unnecessary. We fell in sync like it was yesterday and the years had not passed. I knew this because I felt that sensation of connection, where I could tell Sherlock just as much as he could tell me without uttering a single syllable. He straightened his coat and put on his gloves and the way that he looked at me told me without a doubt that he would not change his mind on the matter of me joining him. I wanted to be angry, but I could not bear to feel that way with Sherlock so close to me and the taste of him still lingering on my lips. Even if I wanted to feel angry and cheated, I knew I could not, because Sherlock had stolen it from me; he had robbed me of that emotion when he kissed me with all the passion and possessiveness in the world that meant _mine. _Perhaps it was that, and the way he touched my face and kissed me again, saying without saying _I'll come back soon_.

I tried to give him his scarf at the door, but he wouldn't take it and asked me with only his hands on top of mine to keep it so that I wasn't so lonely. I didn't know how he knew so much about me even after all the years of separation, but I chalked it up to the fact that Sherlock was Sherlock and there were some things that I would never truly know. So I kept the scarf and stood in the doorway with him for a few seconds longer, where we did not really talk or do much of anything except breathe the same air and listen to the sounds of fading music and traffic. And then finally he had to leave for good, but his hands would not let mine go and I was the one who had to be strong and release him.

_Go_ I said wordlessly, squeezing his hands before releasing them. As much as I wanted Sherlock to come home, I had to let him leave. But my heart felt lighter than the last time because my lips were still tingling and warm where he had kissed me. I knew that it meant he understood my loneliness and that I, in return, comprehended his. I knew that it meant with more certainty than last time that I would see him again and maybe next time, _almost _would be _now_ and we would be smiling like old times instead of abandoning each other again. Just thinking about it, I managed to smile at him with a vestige of my old self.

The corners of Sherlock's lips quirked a bit, but he did not smile back because it was past eight and Moriarty was still out there and now he had a little bit less sadness but a lot more anxiety behind his eyes. It was all because Sherlock was thinking about me and him and _us_ and what that meant in the great scheme of the Game. Would we both live to see the end of it? I could see all these thoughts racing behind his eyes as they moved back and forth, already thinking seven, ten, twenty steps ahead. I watched him and drank it in because watching his mind work faster than any ordinary person was fantastic and amazing to witness and I had missed it more than I realized. And then I felt guilty because all of this had become another factor with which he had to concern himself. The word _hindrance_ came to mind and I tensed my jaw, squared my shoulders and swore again that I would not be one.

I seemed to continuously make these resolutions I could not keep.

"Stop," I said, breaking the silence between us. It settled between our feet like shards of broken glass, but it had to be done. Sherlock stopped, mid-thought, and looked at me and it was then that I knew how deeply I had affected him. My voice had never been something to drag Sherlock out of his thoughts before, because only Sherlock would do that when all the work had been done and he decided to return to the real world. The fact that I could reach him and make him come back to reality meant that Mycroft had been right all along. I felt a weight on my chest and on my shoulders and that selfish, guilty feeling began gnawing at my heart.

Because I would be the one who killed Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't," I said and breathed, somehow, through the ache in my sternum. I was all but begging him _don't think about us, not yet, not now, not until you beat Moriarty at his own game. _I managed to verbalize only half of that. "Not until it's over."

Sherlock looked at me with a stare that went so deep, I had to look away.

"Don't let me interfere with the work. I never have and I'm not going to start," I said, because I knew how Sherlock viewed the world: the work was all that mattered and everything else was transport. I knew that and I accepted it and I needed Sherlock to understand that I always had valued his mind over my heart. Even now, with that self-condemning, angry thing eating away at me piece by piece.

The work had to come first, or else Sherlock would cease to be Sherlock.

"John," he said, and I really, really wished he wouldn't say my name like that. I was trying to help him and every time, every single time he called, I went rushing to him on my selfish impulses. I was addicted and I knew it, but I couldn't stop, even when I knew I should. Even when I knew it was only going to hurt him in the end. I told myself I had to be strong, because I had to make sure that Sherlock made it back home.

Even if it meant waiting alone again.

"No," I replied, and stepped back, putting some distance between us and the broken pieces of our previous solitude. It took all I had to hold up my head and look him in the eyes as I asked: "Remember what you once told me? 'Caring is not an advantage'. You were right." I swallowed and crossed my arms over my chest as I turned Sherlock's words on him. "Will caring about me help you save me? Save the both of us?" I stopped and shook my head. "No, it won't. It's just going to get in the way." I took a breath. "_I'm _just going to get in the way. So, don't think about me. Don't let me interfere. Just do what you need to do... and come home."

I had no sooner taken a breath when Sherlock said two words I had never heard him utter before:

"I can't."

So shocked at the admission, I couldn't move, just as I couldn't get away from the hands that pulled me closer by the collar of my coat. The distance between us shortened and we were so close again that I could feel Sherlock's breath and his warmth and the slight shudder of his exhale. His expression came across so raw that I could barely comprehend it, just as I could not even begin to understand every speck of irregular colour in the deep oceans of his irises. I had to stand on tiptoe and my knees were shaking as Sherlock spoke, his lips brushing against mine with every word.

"I tried, but I can't," he said, and he breathed like it hurt. It made _me_ feel like breathing hurt too, because his vulnerability came across like an open, bleeding wound and even though I was a doctor I knew there was nothing I could do to ease his pain; I could only increase it. "John...You're invaluable to me." He paused and I could see the anguish so clearly that I wanted nothing but to ease his agony, but at the same time I felt my heart lift with a selfish bit of joy at the confession. "So much, that I cannot factor you out of the equation...not anymore. You have to be a constant in the equation, not a variable. Not anymore. Do you understand?" I couldn't answer even if I wanted to. Sherlock's breath quivered over my lips. "If I don't think about you..." He stopped and he looked so vulnerable that I felt embarrassed, as if I had seen him stripped naked and bare before me. In a way, I suppose I had, because it was only with self-hate that he asked: "What if I miscalculate? What if I...make a _mistake_?"

"You don't make mistakes," I said, and even though it was forced, Sherlock gave me a ghost of a smile.

"You're wrong," he replied.

I looked away.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. I curled my fingers around his coat lapels, idly twisting them into the fabric. "I...didn't want to do this to you..."

"But you did," Sherlock answered, and I felt the flicker of his eyelashes against my temple. I shivered in his grasp. "So, for scientific purposes, I will test a new hypothesis."

"What's that?" I asked, turning my head so that I could see him in the half-light, which illuminated the rings of gray around his enlarged pupils.

"You know," he said, and I did, but I wasn't about to say so. We were so close and I could feel him against me. And even though it was far, far past eight, I was selfish. Another resolution broken, because all I wanted more than anything in the world was to let his quick words of deduction wash over me like waves on a beach.

"Tell me," I replied.

And he did.

He explained about the phenomenon of _caring_ and his hypothesis concerning the theory that perhaps it could be beneficial to The Work in some way. He cited cases from the military, where it had been observed that soldiers fought more efficiently and effectively due to personal attachment towards other members of their unit. If it could work to the benefit of those struggling in abnormal situations, certainly it could apply in ours. It was beautiful to hear him speak with such fervor and excitement, as if this new angle could possibly be a breakthrough into something he had never dreamed of experiencing. I did not want to bring him down from it, because it was contagious and catching and I was smiling for real this time instead of forcing it like all the others. But even still, I felt that dark thing gnawing, tearing away inside as I thought of the negative outcomes of the experiment. I knew from experience the loss of a member of my unit: the bonds of attachment left a kind of hole in you when they passed and that abyss could never be whole again. It persisted, empty and raw and ever-present, whether awake or asleep. I couldn't tell Sherlock these things because I knew there was no point.

He already knew; he knew the risks and he wanted to take them anyway. He wanted to try.

So, I would try too.

His speech cut short at the buzzing of the mobile in his pocket. It broke him out of his soliloquy and brought him back to reality, where Sherlock suddenly realized where we were and what time it was and all his responsibilities again. Our time was up, but it was almost, _almost,_ over.

"Go," I said.

His lips lingered over mine momentarily and then he was gone.

**pqpq**

After Sherlock had left and I had gathered enough strength to leave, I went downstairs to the kitchen. Angelo was waiting for me, seated on a wooden stool in the corner, where an ancient television set spouted sports statistics at the cooks and servers in the kitchen. He smiled at me and put one of his warm hands on my shoulder. I felt relief, because now I was not the only one who knew Sherlock was alive. He was not a hallucination or a dream, because Angelo had seen him too and he was one hundred percent on our side. He said to me "I believe in you two," and then pushed a white take-away box into my hands. Then he said nothing more and winked at me and sent me on my way. By the time I arrived back at the flat, it was late and I was hungry for the first time in ages. I sat the plastic box onto the kitchen table and immediately tucked in. Surprisingly, eating dinner that night was less of a chore than it had been.

It was the first time I had been able to taste food since Sherlock had left all those years ago.

I savored it and thought about everything that had happened and wondered because of it what sort of person I had become. Sherlock had made me into an addict without knowing it, and even though it was so dangerous for the both of us, here we were: prepared to try a new experiment that could get us both killed just for the sake of trying. After all those years alone, had I truly longed for such destructive behaviors? When had I forsaken safety for a few blissful moments alone with Sherlock, just to hear his voice, feel his hands-lips-on me? When had I become this selfish person who cared not for the danger Sherlock placed himself in for my benefit? Why did I not fight him more on the subject? Why did I not push him away to protect him?

My fork stopped mid-air and the answer came:

Because I was not strong enough to do what Sherlock had done to me, _for me_. I knew the pain and loneliness and so did he, which was why I could not bear to do it again. If I had to push away that man and force him away from home for a second time, what kind of monster would that make me?

After dinner, I made tea and then did something that I had not done in a long time.

I went and got my gun.

Over the three, now nearly-four, lonely years, I had often looked at it. And I won't lie: certain thoughts had crossed my mind when the nights became too unbearable and stretched for far too long without sleep. I always thought that it would be so easy and so fast, but then I would feel the weight in my palm and think about it and decide that it was not worth it. Sometimes, though, the thought would overtake me and I would sit on the edge of the bed with the gun, loaded and cold and ready in my hand. The soldier in me always resisted because that part of me did not believe in giving up while the other part of me was so damned tired that my constant weariness had turned into numbness and given way to apathy. But then I thought that if I did it, it wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be fair to Ms. Hudson to find me that way or to Harry, who would have to bury me with all kinds of shame. It wouldn't be fair because the flat would be sold and my old friends would feel remorse, but perhaps the worst part was knowing that I would have failed to be as strong as everyone believed me to be.

But in the end, what always stopped me was one thing: the fact that if I did it, it meant that I had stopped believing in Sherlock. It meant that I doubted him.

And I did not, would not, could not, would never, ever doubt him.

So, sometimes I would look at my gun and hold it and feel the weight of it, but I would never, ever point it at myself with intentions to end my life. It always ended up in the drawer of my nightstand.

Until tonight.

I brought the gun down to the living room and sat at the desk. I unloaded it and cleaned it and then put it back together with all sorts of different thoughts in my mind. This time I was thinking about Sherlock's eyes boring into me and the lips pressed possessively against mine and the taste of his tongue still lingering sweet and tangible and mysterious... I thought of the way Sherlock looked at me with his eyelashes fluttering over my skin and the way he said to me _You're mine _and _You're invaluable_ because that meant everything to me.

I belonged to Sherlock, now, heart and soul.

He had done all of this to keep me safe. He had kissed me in that way to mark me as his and his alone. And it was not a one-way street, for Sherlock now belonged to me as much as I belonged to him. He was my daylight and my breath as much as I was his sword and his shield. I picked up my gun and cocked it, holding it out in front of me. I could feel the weight of it in my hand. It felt natural, even after four years.

My hands did not tremble.

Sherlock was mine and because he was mine, it was my job to protect him in anyway I could. If I was his heart, I would ensure my own safety at all costs. And because he was my heart, I would protect him until my last breath.

**pqpq**

I had no sooner made this declaration to myself when my mobile vibrated in my back pocket. Surprisingly, I was not surprised by the message, knowing that I had most likely been under surveillance for longer than I could possibly feel comfortable knowing. And it was like a window had been opened to my old life: a portal through which I could return to those days I missed so much. Because there was something empowering and thrilling and right about the text on the screen:

_It's good to have you back, John._  
>-<em>Mycroft Holmes<em>

And it felt good to be back.

**pqpq**

Afterwards, life was awash in colour and vitality again.

I knew it was because Sherlock was in the city, breathing life into London's gray streets and I was inhaling it as if I hadn't breathed in nearly four years. In a way, that was the truth, so I took in as much as I could in order to feel closer to Sherlock while we were apart.

With the return of life came the return of something that I had not experienced in my monotonous world: danger. The entire city seemed to shimmer with it, taunting me with the possibility of adventure and the thrills I had so desperately missed. I went out into it everyday without fail, without pause, because the gun at my back made me forget my limp and tremor entirely and I was walking straighter than I had since Sherlock disappeared.

Even still, I knew this would not be a fun game.

Since Sherlock had returned to London, so had Moriarty. He had eyes on me everywhere: on street corners, peering at me through shop windows, from atop tall buildings. I altered my routes and kept my head down and stuck to heavily crowded areas. I did not go out at night and during the evening stayed far away from windows. I bolted the downstairs door twice over after Ms. Hudson went to bed just to keep the both of us safe.

I played it smart in those respects, but sometimes, the danger gave way to a thrill and I felt as an addict to a drug. I needed that stimulation more than I thought and craved it. Each day that I was not confronted or shot at was another day I felt victorious and powerful again. After feeling so helpless for so long, it was a breath of fresh air.

And then there was Sherlock.

Sometimes, a few days would pass and there would be no word from him, but then floods of messages would come and I went running. I chased his clues down back alleys and through abandoned buildings and atop rooftops just to find him.

I always did.

Those moments were ours and they were few, but they were _ours_ and that was all that mattered. They were the moments when I saw Sherlock's train of thought needed to slow down, so I would cup his cheeks and kiss him until he relaxed and kissed me back. For just a few minutes we could be somewhere else.

One day, I met Sherlock in an empty lab room at St. Bart's and he did not say anything at all, too focused on something with his microscope and his chemicals to pay me any mind. I did not ask what he was doing or break his concentration, because watching him work was enough for me. He asked me to fetch him such-and-such solution or to send a text during that time, and I made sure to audibly grumble about it like usual that he had two perfectly good arms so why not _use them_? He did not say anything, but when he was finished, Sherlock put his arms around me and held onto me like I stood as the only thing that anchored him in this world.

I supposed that I really didn't mind doing things for him like I used to, so long as he used his arms to do that more often.

But sometimes, it was too dangerous for us to meet, so we would have to play the game of catching side-long glances at each other through glimpses in the crowd. Sometimes we would walk right by one another down a street bustling with people and I would brush Sherlock's hand with the outside of mine and then he would be gone. A few times, we arranged to sit at cafes on opposite sides of the street, where we would glance but nothing more to show we knew one another. Despite not being able to smile at one another or be together for too long in public, I think we both enjoyed it in the sense that we were rebelling. We were in Moriarty's backyard and it was so dangerous but we were still _alive_.

The fear of danger had always been manageable because we had each other and this time, it was no different.

**pqpq**

However, the war came too close to home.

I realized I had been dancing along that fine little line between safe and suicidal and that I should stop because the danger had become too real. They were small things at first: Ms. Hudson's back door being broken into, mail stolen, windows broken. Then they escalated to become worse. Ms. Hudson had taken in a cat over the winter and even though it stayed outside, she fed it every morning and every night. One day it went missing and we thought it would come back, but it never did. Then three days later it appeared in our front foyer: dead with its stomach cut open and wrapped in its own entrails.

It took a while to calm Ms. Hudson, and when she had stopped crying, I wrapped the cat in an old shirt and buried it out back in the small garden Ms. Hudson had let overgrow years ago. I knew it was a threat, but I lied to Ms. Hudson and told her not to worry because I would tell Lestrade about it and he would probably find the mean kids who did it. But I never phoned Lestrade, just as I never told Sherlock about it.

He already had enough to worry about.

**pqpq**

"Why paper cranes?"

We were standing on a bridge overlooking the Thames. We had three minutes and two yards between us. I wanted to be closer to him: lean against the wool of his coat, seeking his body heat and presence. But I was banished to his right and had to rest my arms on the cool steel of the railing and pretend like I was not freezing to death. Then when he asked that question, I thought of Georgia and how, sometimes I liked to take walks around the city that would end at her grave, where I would leave little offerings: tiny paper birds in dull Post-It Note colors on the dewy grass before her headstone. I knew it would not be something he wanted to hear, because wishes and magic and hopes and things like that were for ordinary people. There were some things that I knew Sherlock would never understand.

"Why not?"

"I just see no correlation between birds and wishes," Sherlock answered, and he looked at me, sidelong, only for a second. I smiled.

"Wishes are like birds, in a way," I said, and looked up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Sherlock did too. There were high-flying birds over the Thames, so far away that I could not tell what kind they were. "Think about it. Birds are the symbols of freedom, because they can fly away, wherever they want; whenever they want. Wishes are kind of like that, because sometimes they can make us free."

Sherlock said nothing, and I did not know if he understood or not. But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper crane I had given him all those months ago. Even from far away, I could see that he had touched it often: the blue ink bled into the paper and faded into different shades of cerulean. I wondered if, had I been closer, I would have been able to see the residual remnants of blue ink upon Sherlock's fingertips.

"Freedom," Sherlock said, and he wasn't looking at me or the sky or his watch. He was looking at the crane as if something beautifully interesting had come to mind.

I hoped one day he would be able to share it with me.

**pqpq**

A few days later, I woke up from disjointed dreams with a bad feeling I could not shake.

I was out of tea and other essentials which only added to the mood, but I was not about to let it bother me too much and donned my coat, grabbed my keys, and set off towards the store. On the way, I decided to stop in a corner cafe for a coffee. It was a Tuesday and relatively early, so there were businesspeople about in their suits and college students working on their social networking pages instead of studying. It smelled of cinnamon and pastries and bitter coffee. People were talking on their mobiles or messaging in line. All of it came across so ordinary, but that bad feeling would not go away. Something was wrong and it was seriously wrong.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end.

I was afraid and the fear was almost suffocating. Why? Why was such a civilian setting triggering alarm bells in my head like it did back in Afghanistan, when the men would always want to go into the one house that looked like all the others but felt _wrong_?

In my pocket, my hands were clammy and shaking and I wanted to run away.

"Good morning. What will it be today?" asked the pretty young girl behind the counter. I did not even realize that I was next in line until she spoke. She could not be a day older than twenty-three. I wondered why I feared she would not live to see her twenty-fourth birthday. "Sir?"

"Ah, yes, uhm..." I paused and looked up at the board. The people behind me were agitated, probably wondering why I had not decided earlier. It made me so nervous that I could barely read the sign above her head. Finally I gave up and settled on a regular coffee and paid with my card. I was just putting it back in my wallet when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

**_One unread message. _**

"Sir? Your coffee," said the girl, distracting me as she slid the red cup towards me.

"Thank you," I replied, taking the cup with my free hand. I had no sooner turned away from the counter when I dropped my coffee onto the floor at the sight of the message in front of me:

_Get out now._  
><em>SH<em>

I looked around and saw people looking at me and the mess I had made. I pocketed the phone quickly and, without even hesitating, pulled out my wallet to show my military identification to everyone in the room. Some people who had noticed this appeared alarmed and I could not believe what I was about to do because inciting panic had not been on my Top Ten Things to Do Today List.

"Everyone, please, can I have your attention," I said authoritatively, surprising even myself at the calmness I displayed in such a moment of fear. It made people stop to listen. I didn't want to make a hysterical scene, so I came up with the most plausible lie I could think of on the spot. "Please evacuate the premises immediately. We have a severe gas leak in the area. Get out now, leave all of your things behind...Please make your way to the exit calmly," I instructed as seriously as I could and thank God I looked trustworthy because they all swarmed the doors to get out, including the staff. Everyone stood on the sidewalk outside and I held up my ID a little higher as I tried to get people to move away from the cafe, but they were reluctant to step into traffic. I was trying to persuade them when I heard a high-pitched wail ring out from above. It came from the building diagonal from the cafe, on my right side, and the whizzing of a bullet went right by me, burning my cheek as it went.

It missed by only a centimeter.

Someone with that good of aim could not have missed. And because I hadn't moved and there was no wind, I knew it was a threat. My life was in their hands now-Moriarty's hands-and the next bullet would certainly be through my head if the sniper's employer wished it. But perhaps today was the wrong day to die, because I heard no more shots. Everyone had evacuated safely, making their way quickly across the street. Definitely the _wrong day to die _then. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And then the building behind me exploded.

**pqpq**

The war was in my backyard now.

Some people had still been on the retreat from the gunshot while passerby had lingered too close to the building, where I had also been standing. The blast sent us all to the asphalt with a force that left me discombobulated and bewildered for a moment. The explosion left a ringing in my ears that sounded like bells. When it faded slightly and I could hear the world again, it was chaos: it was like Afghanistan again with the smoke and the confusion and the fire. The smell of sulfur lingered heavily in the air. People were screaming. Cars screeched to a standstill.

All of the confusion put my mind into a state of strange calm.

Without pause, I began to perform triage on the sidewalk and helped pedestrians move the injured away from the burning building. The police came in swarms a few moments later, then the fire trucks and ambulances. I aided the paramedics the best I could while the fires were put out, checking people for shock and other injuries, draping blankets over those that sat on the edges of the sidewalks in their torn business suits and school blazers. Finally the scene came under control and they took the injured away and made me sit for a while with a blanket over my shoulders. The medics cleaned up the scrapes on my hands and knees and put butterfly stitches over the cut on my cheek. Then the police asked questions and I pretended not to know what had happened.

"They said you helped to evacuate all these people," said one of the Yarders on duty.

"Must have been someone else. I have one of those faces," I replied, and they grumbled and made notes on their notepads before leaving me alone.

The medics were grateful for the help I had provided, but they wanted me to check into St. Bart's for my injuries. I politely refused and said I was going home. However, the second time they asked, I had to be crafty about it, because I think they were planning on taking me against my will. So, when their backs were turned, I dropped the shock blanket and disappeared into the crowds still lingering behind the police tape around the scene. I had no sooner stepped out of the range of the paramedics and police when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.

It did it once, then again, and again.

**_Incoming Call...Unknown Number_**

So I ducked into a storefront where it was relatively crowded, but quiet, and answered my mobile.

"Hello?" I answered. The caller did not answer, but I could hear traffic and wind and the sound of people talking. "Hello?" I said again, and then stopped and dropped my voice. "Sherlock?"

He never called because he preferred to text and it scared me because I could hear him breathing but not talking and I didn't know how I knew, but I could tell that he was afraid.

"Where are you?" he asked, and his tone came across as something I had never heard before. It was just as small as it was high, and the consonants were clipped so short that the vowels barely had a chance to escape.

"I'm fine," I said, and kept my voice calm because I could hear the edging panic in Sherlock's tone and it was so disconcerting that I could barely keep upright. It felt like the world had decided to begin tipping on its axis, throwing us all off balance while it did so. But I had to stay calm because if I didn't, then Sherlock couldn't either, and that could not happen. Sherlock had to stay himself and the best way to do that was for me to be me. "It's alright. Nothing happened. It's all fine now."

"There was an explosion," he said; his voice was all sorts of wrong.

"There was, but you told me about it in time," I replied, and tried to soothe that agitation I could feel rising on the other end of the line. "I got out. Everyone is alright."

"There was a sniper," Sherlock said, as if he hadn't heard me.

"Not a very good one," I said, trying for humor. "He missed me by a mile."

"Where are you?" he asked again, and the sound on his end quieted as if he had gone inside a building or gotten into a cab.

"Sherlock, I'm fine," I said, and clutched at my phone as I sank down onto the stoop of the shop. People were still standing about despite the smoke and the sirens, and I felt safe among the crowd for a moment. "I'm fine," I said for the umpteenth time.

"I'm coming," he replied, once again, as if he had not listened to a word I said. "Tell me exactly where you are."

I thought about the bomb and the sniper, who was not a very good shot but maybe it was because he had been ordered not to kill. Not to kill _me_ at least. Maybe he had been ordered to do all of this to lure Sherlock out into the open. My heart began beating so fast that I had to do everything I could not to let it affect my breathing. If I slipped up, Sherlock would know and he would come to find me and then it would be just like Moriarty wanted.

"No," I answered, with all the strength I had. "Turn around right now. Don't you dare come out here."

"John-"

"No," I said again, and it came out as a whisper instead of a shout. "Don't. They don't want me, Sherlock. They want you. And if you come here, you're giving them exactly what they want. So turn around right now. Don't come here, Sherlock. Don't."

He didn't say anything, but I had a feeling he was not listening.

"Sherlock, do you hear me? Are you listening?" I asked, and it was with more anger this time. He had to know that I was serious, because if he came out here and got shot at, it would be all because of me. I could not let that happen.

He said nothing.

"If you care about me at all, you will _not_ come here," I said, as much as it hurt to push him away. But it was for Sherlock's own good and it was not as if I planned to disappear for several years and pretend I was dead. Just a few days until the severity lessened to that day-to-day fun tip-toeing of the line between us and Moriarty in the Game that was almost, _almost_ over.

Nothing on his end, so I kept talking to fill the void. "You will _not_ go to Baker Street. You _will _stay away, just for a few days. Just until it's safe." I stopped, held my phone so tightly that I thought I might break it because I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life, even trumping those times in Afghanistan when things were really bad. And then I begged quietly: "Please" in the same way I had whispered _Please, God, let me live_ under a scorching summer sun, years and years ago.

Silence, and then his voice came across stronger and clearer than before, tinged with a bit of annoyance I knew well enough to easily deduce that it had been faked:

"Just this once."

And even though I was shaking, I somehow managed to smile.

"Thank you."

**pqpq**

I danced around Ms. Hudson for a day or two until my hands healed up, because she was all abuzz about the explosion and I had to pretend like I did not know anything about it. Luckily my name and face were not in the papers, so she had no idea about my involvement. However, she did see the cut on my cheek and I had to make up a story about slipping when getting out of the shower or some such nonsense so that she would not suspect anything. After a few days, she stopped fretting about it because my cheek had healed mostly, leaving only a thin, scabbed-over line right beneath my right eye. I touched it often and thought about, had the sniper angled himself a bit more to the right, I would probably be dead.

I tried not to dwell on it, just like I tried not to think about Sherlock. Since the explosion, he had not texted me. I even waited a few days before trying to text the last number in my recent calls list, but the message returned, undelivered, and I was left to wait. Apparently, he had taken to heart my warnings and stayed away, even on the other end of my mobile. During those days of silence, I could only hope that Sherlock had understood why I had said those things. But then the thought of his intellect failing him, causing him to actually be human and act stupidly without thinking, made me worry he had gotten himself into more trouble than I could possibly know. Instead of giving me a sense of relief, I only felt anxiety, and wondered constantly when the tiring waiting would come to a final end.

But even though I wondered about it, I did not expect it.

It was not even a week after the incident, during an afternoon walk to the co-op, when I saw the sleek black car following me. Upon noticing it, I stopped. I stood rooted to the pavement as the Mercedes pulled up next to the curb with all its tinted windows and polished chrome detailing and I could feel the encroaching coldness starting at the fringes of my consciousness. _He's dead. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead and it's my fault_ the feelings bled, like ink into paper, and there was nothing I could do to quell my shaking. The back door opened and Anthea emerged from the backseat, standing there with her eyes glued to her Blackberry and the back door open in invitation. _Dead. He's dead, isn't he? Isn't he, Anthea? _I wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come and she wasn't looking at me, so I swallowed and stiffly climbed into the car.

The empty backseat felt large and cold, even when Anthea returned and sat on the upholstery across from me. She texted without looking up and so I kept my eyes down: on my knees, on my shoes, and clenched my fists in the pockets of my coat. My left hand gripped the orange bottle of pills so tightly that I believed I might crush it.

It was over.

It was finally over.

I did not have to brace myself or steel my nerves to deal with this simple truth like I had always imagined. On the contrary, a beautiful wave of calm rushed over me. It stopped my shaking, soothed the tension in all my body, and my hands unclenched, relaxing against my sides. There was no despair or loneliness or regret like I thought there would be. Instead, I laid out the next steps in my head with surprising clarity and ease. I would go to where Anthea took me and then I would see Sherlock's body and then I would go home and afterwards throw myself into eternal oblivion because it was _over_.

The car stopped. Anthea got out and I followed her, eyes on the ground, hands still in my pockets. I listened to the echoing _click, click, click_ of her heels as we walked across the dark pavement of a damp parking garage. The elevator _ding_ed as it came to our floor. Anthea went inside and so did I. She still did not look up from her texting; I was somewhere else entirely, so I did not mind. Making conversation would have been harder, I decided, and tried to keep that serenity tight around me like a blanket so that I would not fall apart. I could fall apart when I was alone and sure that Sherlock was gone for good and that there was absolutely nothing left for me in this life. Then, and only then, could I break down.

In the meantime, I could only breathe and wait.

When the elevator stopped, the doors opened smoothly with a pneumatic purr. With my gaze on the ground, all I could see was the rich design of a carpet in a dizzying pattern of reds and yellows. Anthea did not make to leave the lift, and not even looking up from her phone, she said: "Straight ahead. The door is open."

I nodded numbly, forcing one foot in front of the other. My shoes sunk into the plush carpet. Behind me, I heard the elevator doors close and then the sound of the lift descending. And then it was just me in a carpeted hallway with high windows and one door and the thought _Sherlock is dead_ weighing heavily on my heart. It increased its weight as I stepped through the fading beams of afternoon sunlight on the carpet because I knew I really was nothing without Sherlock. I had somehow existed for the years without him, just because I knew him to be alive. When he was dead, there was nothing. I was a shell and I had already checked out and gone and I didn't care, because Sherlock was dead and I was too.

Without regard to formalities, I did not knock on the door. I put my hand on the silver knob and turned and walked inside without an announcement. Even though I had started to retreat into myself as my only method of self-defense, I did notice that the floors were marble and that the sound of my entry made an echo on a high ceiling. I blinked once, twice, and lifted my head to look around. I stood in the entryway of some posh high-rise apartment or hotel room with floor to ceiling windows that stretched out to provide a beautiful view of London. The city was fiery and red and burning with the fading day and I never saw it more breathtaking.

Because Sherlock Holmes stood before it all: alive and half-smiling in that way that brought me back to myself faster than the breath leaving my lungs.

And then it seemed like in the span of another breath, Sherlock was there before me with his hands on my face. I felt the calluses on his fingers-years of playing the violin in combination with numerous instances of abuse experimenting with corrosive materials-smooth over my skin, the thumb paying particular attention to the healing laceration along my cheek. He did not say a word to me, just touched my face, my fringe, my lips, and I let him because he was alive and I was alive and the colours of an ending day had never been more serendipitous.

"It's going to scar," he said, after observing for an amount of time that I knew Sherlock did not need, but hoped he wanted.

"Yes," was all I could say, because it would. Not badly, of course. It would fade into a single white line across my cheekbone and perhaps with time, would become almost invisible. But there would be a scar there for the rest of my life, just like the rest of the scars on my body, and that was something that did not trouble me. It would be another story, another memory, in the rich compendium of my life with Sherlock Holmes. So, no, the scar did not bother me; I felt more concern in regards to the final chapter of our lives and when that would be completed. How many more days did we have? Hours? Minutes?

Were years too selfish to ask for?

"He's dead, you know," Sherlock said, as if knowing the course of my thoughts. His thumb moved over the scab on my face so gently that I felt a tremble take root in my spine.

"Who?" I asked.

"The sniper," Sherlock replied. I looked at him. Had Sherlock done it himself? Had he gone to that place after I had told him not to? I almost became angry, because not only had Sherlock gone and gone alone, after I had asked him not to, but also because the thought of Sherlock with all that blood on his hands made me uneasy. My hands were already stained; his were too beautiful to be so tainted. Sherlock shook his head, like my eyes were open pages in a book that he could read with little difficulty, and put me at ease almost immediately. "Mycroft's men." The way he did not look away from me attested to his innocence. So I nodded and Sherlock continued: "His name was Sebastian Moran. He was Moriarty's, how would you say it? Second-in-command."

I waited for Sherlock to add the words I hoped to hear, but he did not.

"We're closer now," Sherlock said, and this time, he did look away.

"But not yet," I said and I looked away too. I stepped to the side and went to the window to watch as the reds and oranges and yellows descended upon rooftops. My arms wrapped around my own body and I held myself there, literally balancing on the edge of what could be a great plunge. "_Almost_, right?"

Sherlock's presence suddenly appeared behind me, but he did not touch me.

"One more week," he replied.

I turned away from the shining windows and shimmering buildings to look at Sherlock: a contrasting form of black and white and gray all there before me.

"A week?" I asked, feeling as if I swallowed a stone. Or several stones. This was the first time I had been given a definitive timeline. It felt final and wrong and I wanted to be happy because I would know with certainty both our fates, but I just couldn't muster up any semblance of joy. It took me forever to ask the next two words: "And then?"

"And then it's over," Sherlock answered. I couldn't tell how he felt about the end of the Great Game because his eyes and his voice and his body gave nothing away. Maybe it was bittersweet for him: something so exciting that had turned into something else entirely. I hoped it was, because I could live with bittersweet.

I couldn't live with disappointed.

"Okay," I said, watching as the day began sinking along the wall behind him, sending cabinet pulls and door knobs and mirrors into nothing but refractions of colour and light. It did things to Sherlock's eyes that I had never seen before, and I was content to stand there with my back to London while the rest of me plunged into those multi-hued irises. "Okay," I said again, and for the first time since entering the room, touched Sherlock with my own hands. I put them over his, slid them along his knuckles, then down to trace the fine curves of his wrists. He let me do this without a word, without complaint, allowing me to trace the lines of his arms up to his shoulders and then down the smooth angle of his collarbones. I let the tips of my fingers trail down the buttons of his shirt, pausing halfway before sweeping them out over the smooth fabric. He seemed smaller in just a dark maroon button-up with no jacket or scarf to hide him from view. It was then that I realized this was the first time in four years I had seen him without his coat. That made the moment felt more intimate than ever, and I thought I felt his heartbeat, but it could have been mine.

"You're not going to let me help," I said, not asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, but his voice came lower, softer than before.

"Why?" I asked, and looked up at him. The darks of his eyes were the blackest I had ever seen.

"You know why," Sherlock said.

"What if I say no?" I asked, and the stare Sherlock gave me held no humor or mirth.

"I don't care," Sherlock replied, and I knew he didn't. I wanted to look away, but his gaze would not let me break free. "Tomorrow, you're going to leave London. You'll be allowed to return when it's over."

"You're sending me away?" I asked. The moment broke. I did not take that news passively and jerked my hands away from Sherlock as if he had burned me. Simultaneously, I felt all the sunset's colours filling me with red and orange and yellow anger and I propelled it towards the cool grays of Sherlock's face. "Sending me away like I'm some sort of _child?_ Afraid I'm just going to get in the way? Sherlock, you can't just banish people when you don't want them around! It doesn't work that way!"

Sherlock reached out and grabbed my upper arms, digging the tips of his fingers into the muscle so hard that it hurt. Still, I didn't make a sound and didn't try to get away. I was held captive by his gaze, because his eyes were serious and the light made them almost unbearable to look at.

"I'm sending you away for the same reason you told me to stay away," Sherlock said. Once his message had been conveyed in a straightforward manner, the grip on my arms lessened, as did the intensity in his eyes, his voice, as he continued: "John...you're not a child and you're not in the way..." He paused and then looked as if he were searching for the right words, and when he found them, his voice came quickly, but softly: "Moriarty is trapped. We have him cornered and he's going to lash out. Maybe do something drastic. He might take you. He might kill you for fun. And then what, John? What's it all for if he takes you away?"

I felt the anger seep out of me, like water in a sieve, because the blue of Sherlock's eyes turned that sad, same sort of indigo as the night he returned. It was that begging, pleading sort of blue that made me want to kiss the sorrow out of Sherlock until his entire body consisted of nothing but those half-smiles I loved and the laughter I craved more than anything else. I hated myself for making him feel any less. How was it that I always became so selfish that I forgot the reason why Sherlock had done all of this: why he had abandoned me for so many years? It was all for my protection.

It always had been.

"I...I just..." I stopped, let my shoulders droop a bit in acquiescence. "I just don't want you to be alone in all this, Sherlock. I've...been here from the start and leaving you now..."

"John," Sherlock said, and I paused, and he looked at me. I knew what he was going to say and I knew that once he said that _one word_ I would not be able to do anything but agree.

"No," I said, and he was so close that I could feel him everywhere, like he had wrapped himself around me entirely and I had no escape. His eyes were drawing me in, the pupils pulling me deeper and deeper into their depths so that I could barely draw a breath because I was drowning in him. I was drowning and I could not even begin to remember how to swim.

"Please," he murmured, and it was so honest and sincere and he was _begging_ when he said it. I broke because I could not oppose him now. Not when Sherlock Holmes looked me right in the eyes and said _please_ because he _never_ said _please_.

_Never_.

"John, please," he said, and I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my fate. When I opened them again, Sherlock was still there, waiting, his breath held somewhere between his chest and throat.

"Just this once," I replied, and he smiled at my choice of words. A real smile: one of his not-too-big and not-too-fake smiles, but one of the small, quiet ones I think he reserved for me and only me. It filled the hole in me left by his absence: expanding with warmth and light and life. Half of me had been missing. Only when I was with Sherlock did that sense of loss disappear. The thought of living forever without it-returning to that empty, dark place-made me want my own heart to stop beating. That was not even being over-dramatic. That was me being _honest_. "On one condition, of course."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, and his eyes were half-lidded and gorgeously darkened as the soft colours of twilight began to replace the harsh pigments of sunset.

"That you live through this," I said, smiled, tried to make a joke that I felt only came out half-hearted: "I'll kill you if you don't."

His lips quirked at the corners, but did not lift further.

"What will you do if I don't?" Sherlock inquired, because he had seen past the joke and deeper, to that thing I desperately wanted to hide from him. I tried to pretend that it wasn't there, but then his eyes were there and they were looking like they did at crime scenes and cadavers and I hoped to all the higher powers that he did not deduce what I would do if he died. But the Fates were not in my favour. It took him less than a minute to figure it out, and I knew because his eyes widened that fraction of an inch like they would when he discovered something relevant and then his lips parted marginally as he took in a small breath. In any other situation, it would have been nothing short of tantalizing, erotic even. But it was this situation and he was there with all the knowledge of what his death would do to me, and I wanted nothing more than to cover his eyes like I would a child, hoping he would un-see those terrible things; those monsters that fed on empty despair and that could only be banished with poison.

"Sherlock," I began, but he stopped me. His eyes swept over me from head to shoulders, down along my waist, where he stared at my left-hand pocket like he could see right through it. I could not tell if he was angry or afraid or both.

"Will you take those pills in your pocket, then? Follow me in death? Very poetic, John. And so dreadfully _boring_," he said, and I could sense the extra force he used to try to make it cutting and sharp to hide his fear. It did hurt a bit, I thought, because I never wanted Sherlock to look at me for what I truly was: pedestrian, ordinary. I always feared that one day he would wake up and discover this and, becoming tired of me, would push me out of his life all together. It never happened and probably never would, and that security made me a bit stronger than everyone else in Sherlock's world. But sometimes-and there were times-Sherlock became human and scared and he said things to try to hurt me, but those were the words that I knew I must take with a grain of salt. Even when he drawled it out like it something distasteful: "You're not supposed to bore me, John."

"And you're not supposed to die, Sherlock," I answered, not ruffled in the slightest. I stared at him levelly, not allowing him to have the upper hand. I was going to do as he asked and I would leave London, but I would not abandon him just as much as I would not allow him to take away my final choice.

"What are they? Cyanide tablets? Planning on overdosing on Oxycodine?" Sherlock asked, and he looked a little crazed when he reached for my left pocket. I stepped away from him, effectively keeping his fingers away from the little orange bottle that held the end of my life. "Arsenic? Methadone? Barbiturate?" Sherlock kept asking, kept inching closer, and I clenched my hand around the bottle to ensure it remained in place.

"Mine," I said, and looked at him with the coldest expression I could manage. I had to let him know how serious I was about it, and how little he could do to change my mind. "They are mine. They are my _choice_, Sherlock." He stopped coming towards me, let his pale hands drop to his sides. The retreating daylight gave way to an eerie lavender and cerulean palette on the walls; upon Sherlock's skin. "If something goes wrong... if you die..." I had to look down and off to the side. I couldn't look at him and say it, because we had a week and then all the speculation would become reality and then perhaps there would be two graves in Rosemont Cemetery instead of one. "If you die...I...I have nothing at all. You've taken it, Sherlock. You've taken all of me." I smiled, just a little. "And whatever you didn't take, I gave to you. That's what you do..." I stopped and clutched the pills and wondered when all my strength had deserted me, because it was like the night on the stairs when Sherlock looked at me and waited but I couldn't say a word. It took a second for me to think of the syntax and the syllables and the breath so that it came out the way I wanted it to: "That's what you do when you love someone, Sherlock." And then the words tumbled out like a wave I could not hold back: "When you love someone...you give them everything... because you're not just this singular being anymore. You're not just _yourself_ anymore. You're two people and it's the fucking scariest thing to realize that you're_ nothing _without that other person. The prospect of losing that person and becoming nothing..." I squeezed the pills and heard them rattle in their plastic prison. I felt as if I could barely breathe and the words came out softly, so softly that I almost didn't hear myself. "Dying is better than being alone, with only half of yourself and all the memories of what it was like when you were happy and whole and _alive_."

The columns of shadow upon the carpet had turned softer around the edges, beginning to blend into the gray-white carpet with the fading light, my fading words.

"So, if you die...if you're gone... you're taking me with you. Understand?" I asked, and I finally looked up even though I knew Sherlock's closed-off expression would tell me nothing of how he felt about what I had just said. So I kept talking, because he needed to know.

He needed to know that someone loved him so much that they would die without him.

"So this is my choice. This is my final choice. You can't take that away from me." I smiled, even though I felt some heat prickling at the corners of my eyes. "Besides, I've been following you from the moment I met you. And if I haven't been following you, I've been waiting and believing in you. So I'm not going to just stay behind...and let you go on alone."

My words hung in the air as the pinks and and light purples of twilight gave way to the deeper blues and blacks of night. Sherlock was there before it all, transforming with the absence of light and the perpetual silence that made me feel as if I had said too much or perhaps not enough.

Then finally, Sherlock closed his eyes, as if it pained him, and when he opened them again, it was as if he had made some sort of peace with himself.

"Okay."

It was all he said, and I felt a bit of relief that somehow trumped my rising disappointment. At least he agreed to that. And although I had not been expecting Sherlock to respond emotionally to my admission, the fact that he had completely omitted any sort of comment left me unsteady and unsure of myself. Had I misjudged Sherlock's actions over the past few months? The desperate touches and needy kisses that lasted only moments? Those beautiful, quiet moments where we did not have to say anything, but could feel each other as if out of pure instinct? Did they all mean nothing to Sherlock? Or did he just not know how to say it?

"Okay," I said, and unclenched my fist around the bottle, easing my hands out of my pockets. I felt awkward and a bit exposed, so I turned around and looked out the window again. Already the buildings had lit up with their golden and soft-white hues. Hundreds upon thousands of blinking windows that looked into hundreds upon thousands of lives so very different from ours. What was it like to not have a deadline on the life of the person you cared most for?

Sherlock moved away from me. I heard his footsteps on the carpet retreating. The shifting of his coat. I did not want to turn around and see that he had put it on and had started straightening it out in preparation to leave. There were only so many times I could watch his back disappear out of sight before I could not take it anymore.

"The room has been booked for the entire evening," he said. "It's safe."

"Wonderful," I replied dryly, and leaned against the window frame. I would apparently be spending the night in a very expensive condominium, alone and under high surveillance while Sherlock went off on his own despite the danger waiting for him. I would have much rather been back in Baker Street, pretending to watch the telly while feign-drinking tea like I did almost every night.

"In the morning, a car will come for you," Sherlock continued.

"Looking forward to it," I said with absolutely no enthusiasm, closing my eyes against the lights of the city. I couldn't look at London because it was so beautiful that I could only think hateful thoughts about it. _One week, one week, one week_ kept bouncing about in my head, pounding against my temples and it was so unfair I wanted to break every shiny, perfect thing in the vicinity.

"You'll have to leave your mobile behind."

"Excellent," I answered, because with every sentence, I felt like sinking to the floor and falling into a deep coma. It would be better than being awake with the gorgeous view and the security cameras pointed on me and the knowledge that I would not be able to look away when Sherlock walked out the door and left me staring at his back again.

"John," Sherlock said, and he was close and smelled good, like the soap he used to use, but it had been so long that I could not remember the name. It started with an S and came in a red bottle. At least one hundred times, Sherlock had left it resting precariously on the edge of the high shower shelf we shared, and at least one hundred mornings it had fallen right on my foot, which left me with a over one hundred swears about that damned bottle that I could not remember the name of no matter how hard I tried. The nostalgia threatened to crush me against the glass where the lights of the unfairly luminescent city would smother me until I died, sobbing and gasping.

"John," Sherlock said again, and he was right there in my ear, his chest against my back. His arms moved around me, loosely, from behind, and it felt so right that I wanted to cry. It wasn't fair. Why would he do something like this to me when he was just going to leave? It just wasn't fair.

"What?" I asked, trying to sound like myself, but my voice did not come out normal at all. It emerged past my lips as if someone was trying to strangle me. And I really did feel like someone was trying to suffocate me because Sherlock had never held me like this before and it felt so good and so right and why, _why_ did Moriarty want to take this away from me?

Sherlock's arms tightened a bit around me, and somehow I felt _safe_ and untouchable and strong again.

"I'm not dead, and neither are you, so let's have dinner," he said, and it was so perfect that I felt my heart swell so large I thought it might burst. Perhaps it did, because a laugh escaped my lips, surprising me.

"You never eat during a case," I said.

"I'll make an exception."

"You don't make exceptions."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"I do for you."

I felt a smile tugging at my lips, but it didn't last long. I glanced down at the arms around my waist and placed my hands upon Sherlock's.

"And after?"

"Whatever you want."

"You don't have to run off somewhere?"

"No. Tonight is mine," Sherlock said, and then leaned forward a bit so I could feel the exhale of his breath against my ear and neck and shoulder. "_Ours._" It came across sensually and I wanted it to be that way, because our proximity was something I had yearned for for years and then suddenly we were together overlooking the city cast in night and light and stars and the thought of making love to Sherlock in front of all of it felt _perfect_.

"So, dinner," I said, mouth a little dry. I felt Sherlock nod against me. "And then whatever I want?"

"No need for the repetition, John, you know how useless it is," Sherlock replied cheekily, and it was all in jest, but I elbowed him softly in the stomach anyway.

"You're incorrigible," I said, and I felt myself smiling a full smile.

"I am not," Sherlock retorted.

"You are too," I replied.

"I assure you, I am not. I've altered my behavioral patterns in the past, at your insistence, to better conform to social norms of civility in the presence of other dull-minded persons-"

"Incorrigible _and_ cheeky."

"I prefer your usual astute observations of _brilliant _and _amazing_."

"Narcissistic. I should add narcissistic to the list."

"Your attempts at compliments toward my character are sadly lacking for someone who calls himself a writer," Sherlock said, and he sounded half-amused, half-annoyed. I laughed and it felt good. So, so good.

"I missed you," I said, simply, openly, with no trace of the previous humor. It came out as a solid, honest admission for which I felt no embarrassment. Sherlock moved his body closer to mine, and I felt him pressed so solidly against me that I believed I could fall right into his flesh.

"I...missed you," Sherlock said quietly, and I felt his forehead drop to rest on my shoulder, as if he had become tired upon realizing just how _long_ we had been apart. I reached up, touched his hair with my fingertips. Soft, dark curls smoothed under my fingers. I wondered if the rest of him would be that soft..?

I dropped my hand.

"John?"

"I'm not hungry," I murmured.

"You're too thin," Sherlock said, his breath warm against my neck. His arms pulled me closer against him. His own frame was several stones lighter than I remembered. Pot calling the kettle black.

"I'm not hungry," I said again, turning around in his arms. Then, I looked up. Sherlock's face was still all those beautiful angles and pale lines, but now with a softness around his eyes and lips. Was he thinking about tomorrow, when I would leave him and London behind? About my planned suicide should the Game end badly? About the admission of love that he had not returned? I touched his cheek. "Sherlock," was all I said, and it brought him back to the world where we existed, finally together, perhaps this one last night together. All the words, the soft and the angry from before, disappeared. We clicked, falling into that same sort of synchronized wavelength that we had experienced back in Angelo's flat. It was a stretch of time where tomorrow did not matter because we were alive and breathing and then Sherlock's lips were on mine.

And then I knew without a doubt that Sherlock loved me without saying a word.

**pqpq(The Arrival of the Birds)pqpq**

The city lights were golden and blue and violet.

They came in through the windows and splayed across Sherlock's skin, his hair, his eyelashes and made shadows and highlights that were mysterious and elusive and breathtakingly beautiful. London's vibrant life filtered into Sherlock's eyes, saturating the pale gray canvas with hues I had never seen before and never could have imagined. And then I touched him, kissed him, slowly began to unbutton his shirt to expose pale skin one centimeter at a time. His palms rested on my cheeks. His lips pressed, warm and heated against mine. I could feel his fear and his anxiety by the gentle tremor of the thumb resting under my jaw. I could sense the urgency in his shoulders, sitting taut all the way down his spine. He was already thinking about tomorrow and the colours were so beautiful that I was not about to stand for it.

I bit his lip and tasted a bit of blood. He pulled away and looked down at me with a gaze that stretched into eternity.

"Don't," I said, and gripped his shirt, pulling Sherlock back to where he had been on top of me. I brought him close so that I could see the soul of London filtering sephia and violet through his eyelashes. "Don't think about tomorrow. Think about now. Think about right now: tonight." I brushed my lips over his, tasting the bitterness from his wound. "If this is our last night, we can't waste it. We just can't." It came across as begging, and in a way, I think I was. I couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock thinking about tomorrow, because I was doing all I could to not think about it either. And if we were both thinking about tomorrow, then our last few hours together would be nothing but imprisonment. I thought back to the way Sherlock stood on the bridge overlooking the Thames, holding my paper crane in his hand as he whispered _freedom_. And then I knew I could never accept that we didn't live to the fullest.

That we didn't _love _to the fullest.

"Sherlock," I said, but he stopped my words with a kiss that held more of him than before and I fell into it. I needed that feeling of him surrounding me, pulling me in, holding me close. It meant that he was there and alive, even if just for the moment. It made the transience of our existence all the more meaningful.

"John," he said, when we needed to breath. He whispered my own name over my skin and I felt possessed by the desire to be taken by Sherlock in every possible way. He already owned me mind and soul. The only thing left was my body.

So I gave it to him.

It felt like he kissed every inch of me, not flinching away from the scars of battle: the white lines on my arms, my waist, my legs from errant shrapnel. He took no detour around the mess of scar tissue on my left shoulder; around the bruises the past week had let heal into patterns of blue, black, and yellow. When his exploration was complete, Sherlock stopped and looked at me.

His pupils seemed to extend forever.

I didn't care about swimming or surviving, just drowning as far and as deep as I could. I gave myself over to him, clung to his back and clenched my fingers in his hair. Even though there was pain, I barely felt it, because I was too focused on Sherlock's breath and skin and the connection of our bodies that I think somehow linked our spirits. I felt that feeling of completion, of wholeness; I had been reunited with the half of me I thought I had lost. I did not want it to end, but I felt myself losing my grip and falling headfirst into the blinding lights of the city. And then there was only lightness, like feathers, like thousands upon thousands of birds.

And I felt free.


End file.
